
Class _J 

Book 

Gopyrightlf 

CDEflUGHI BOB 



Smith College 
Theatre VV orkshof) Plays 

An Anthology 




SMITH COLLEGE 
THEATRE WORKSHOP PLAYS 



AN ANTHOLOGY 
(1918-1921) 

With a Preface 

ty 
SAMUEL A. ELIOT, JR. 

Assistant Professor of English 



Published ty 

THE THEATRE WORKSHOP 
SMITH COLLEGE 

Northampton 
Massachusetts 

1921 




Lc 



2* 



Copyright, 1921 
By The Hampshire Bookshop, Inc. 



JUN 20 192 



©CI.A614772 






TO 

SAMUEL A. ELIOT, JR. 

AND TO 

all former members of his classes 
who have struggled to combine 
theory and practice in an inferior 
laboratory, this anthology is dedi- 
cated with affection and sympathy. 

BY 

THE WORKSHOP OF 1921 



CONTENTS 

Preface Samuel A. Eliot, Jr. 

Isotta's Triumph Martha Tritch, 1917 

Made in Heaven Mathilde Shapiro, 191 9 

Spineless Elsie Garretson Finch, 1919 

Ingenuous Grandmother . Mary Vaux Whitford, 1919 

At the End of the Rope Edith Levy, 1920 

The Two Prisoners Judith Matlack, 1920 

The Realist Rosa Rosenthal, 1921 

In My Day Ruth O'Hanlon, 1921 

Avenues Dorothy Butts, 1921 

Germelshausen Marion Ellet, 1921 



PREFACE 

It is not because we consider the ten plays in this volume to be 
valuable works of art or contributions to the American Drama that 
we venture to publish them. Compared with the parallel volumes — 
"Plays of the 47 Workshop" — published at Harvard, they are no 
more than tentative preliminary sketches, creditable to the under- 
graduates who wrote them, interesting to friends of Smith College 
and "the Workshop idea", but without much claim on the attention 
of readers or producing groups elsewhere. Nearly all of them have 
indeed been put to the test of performance before a selected, critical 
audience, in the Smith College Theatre Workshop, — but for reasons 
presently to be set forth, the test in every case was inconclusive. 
Hence the real object of this publication is to make it possible for 
the Workshop to provide a genuine test to the plays of future students: 
these first-fruits are a sacrifice toward greater things to come. 

Every student in the playwriting course at Smith College 
devotes the first two months of the course to adapting a story into 
play form, thus learning the essential differences between narrative 
and drama; and the next two months to an original one act play. 
The rest of the year goes into that vastly harder test of power, a 
full-length play. Meanwhile the students in the play-production 
course are studying in books the principles of practical, everyday 
staging — historical background and ultra-modern theorizing come 
later. In December they get their first practice: the production of 
the adaptations just completed in the writing course. They draw 
on the whole college for actors, rehearse them half-a-dozen times 
with more or less assistance from the authors, and show the results 
to the instructor. The latter, when he has seen them all, selects 
the three or four plays that seem best, not only in the writing but in 
the production and the acting, and (sometimes rearranging the casts 
a little) gives them a few more rehearsals. They are provided 
with scenery, costumes and properties by the students whose pro- 
ductions were not thus singled out, and presently shown to an in- 

[vii] 



PREFACE 

vited audience, whose criticisms are earnestly solicited but meagrely- 
forthcoming. And in the spring the same process is repeated with 
the original one act plays. 

The first reason why criticism is hesitant and the test incon- 
clusive both for the author and the instructor, is that men's parts 
are perforce acted by girls. In the spring of 1919, when the bill 
was Ingenuous Grandmother, Spineless, arid Made In Heaven, the 
male parts were filled by three Amherst students arid two members 
of the Smith Faculty; and this spring two men were brought from 
Amherst for Avenues. But it is difficult to arrange sufficient re- 
hearsals, and plays with any large number of men in them cannot, 
apparently, be produced except with girls. In any case, the men 
cannot be asked to give their time and talent until it is certain that 
that particular play is to be shown to the Workshop audience: 
Amherst is a small college, without many good actors, and its students 
are putting on their own plays all the time. Neither can North- 
ampton amateurs be asked to work under student coaches primarily 
for the instruction of the student producers and playwrights. 

The second reason for the inadequacy of our Workshop is its 
dire lack of technical equipment. The stage in Students' Building, 
where these plays have to be given, is antiquated beyond belief. 
It is four-and-a-half feet high (the standard height is three feet, 
three inches), and from the level auditorium floor an actor 
lying flat upon it is invisible. It is bounded by a brick wall 
(pathetically tinted now to suggest the sky) barely ten feet back of 
the curtain, so that no illusion of exterior scenes is any way possible. 
It has scarcely three feet of wing-space at either side of the arch, 
and no storage facilities for scenery or furniture not actually in use. 
Three interior sets are its maximum capacity: a play with four cannot 
be given, and in a bill of four short plays, two must use the same 
scenery. Its lighting-equipment is absolutely inflexible: no floor- 
plugs, no strip-lights, no dimmers. Now that moving-pictures pre- 
vail at the Academy of Music, some lighting apparatus can be 
borrowed from there; but this is troublesome and expensive, and 
depends upon the absence of plays from the Academy stage. Finally, 
the scenery is so old that it falls to pieces, so heavy that the students 
cannot handle it themselves, and so out-moded that it runs in 

[ viii ] 



PREFACE 

grooves, with a crack between each piece, instead of being braced 
and lashed together as all modern scenery is. 

To raise money for improvements on this stage is the real object 
of this publication. At the present writing, some fifty dollars has 
been contributed by the audience at the most recent Workshop pro- 
duction. The Class of 192 1 has agreed to give to this purpose what- 
ever proceeds may accrue from its production of False Gods, and 
a special appeal will be made for gifts from those who see that per- 
formance. But the costs of building are so great now (it is for this 
reason that none of the $4,000,000 Fund can be applied to our object) 
that ten thousand dollars are needed to lower, deepen, re-light and 
re-equip our stage. Until it be so bettered, the course in production 
will have no proper laboratory for its work and the student-play- 
wrights no fair testing-ground for theirs; and to prove that their 
work shows promise and merits such support needs only a perusal 
of the variety and ingenuity herein set forth. Uneven, experimental, 
juvenile though it be, it is a living and growing drama that has 
taken root at Smith College. 

Samuel A. Eliot, Jr. 



[ix] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 
A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

MARTHA TRITCH 



CHARACTERS 

The Great Isotta, She is fifty-six and looks thirty-five — a beautiful 

and graceful woman. 

Giulia. Her maid, a middle-aged woman. 

Mary. Her young English protegee. 

Pippo. 

Mrs. Dodd and Miss Tippitts. American tourists. Mrs. Dodd 
is small, bustling, fussily dressed; Miss Tippitts is somewhat 
masculine and tailor-made, with short, iron-gray, curly hair. 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Scene: Isotta 1 s private sitting room in Pension Gregori, Capri. 
There are two doors — one up center, the other up right center; a couple 
of steps lead up to the latter. On the left are two long windows which 
open upon a small balcony. The furniture is heterogeneous , but pro- 
duces the effect of faded magnificence. There is a chaise longue, a small 
sofa, a harp, a table, upon which are many photographs and objects of 
vertu. 

Time : Afternoon of a spring day about 1913. 

[The door at back opens stealthily. Mrs. Dodd's head peers cautious- 
ly around the door, to be followed by the rest of her body.] 

Mrs. Dodd. Sh-sh, Jessica. Are you coming? It's as Tony 
said — everybody away. [Enter Miss Tippitts with more assurance 
and much less stealth.] The great Isotta! 

Miss Tippitts. Humph! Nothing much to see now that we've 
got here. It's as cold and draughty as the rest of this mausoleum of 
a place. "Palace"! 

Mrs. Dodd. But the view, Jessica! You're so prosaic. [Trips 
to window at left and murmurs ecstatically] Ah, that sullen blue-green 
sea beating against the jag-ged rocks! 

Miss Tippitts [standing monumentally in the exact center of 
the room, looking sharply around] Chipped tile floor; tables; a sofa, 
covered with chintz which never could have cost above thirteen 
cents a yard; photographs signed with scrawls you can't read; a harp; 
and a ceiling painted over with fat, indecent cupids. D'you think 
it's been worth it? 

Mrs. Dodd. You're so funny, Jessica. You didn't want to 
go to the king's palace in Rome. 

Miss Tippitts. I can't see why you set your heart on this. 

Mrs. Dodd. It's been so tantalizing — living in the same house 
with Isotta and only seeing her sweep through the parlor. 

[15] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Miss Tippitts. Tipping that drunken brute of a Tony! Five 
whole lire! 

Mrs. Dodd. Now don't tell me again that two would have been 
plenty. 

Miss Tippitts. If you had to come in where you're not wanted 
— you could have watched your chance and slipped in when the 
coast was clear. 

Mrs. Dodd. But we couldn't have felt sure without Tony. 

Miss Tippitts. I'd never feel sure that a man in the condition 
Tony's in today would know out from in. I smelt his breath. Rum! 

Mrs. Dodd [not listening, picking up one of the books] Did you 
ever! Listen to this. "To the sweetest Juliet that ever leaned out 
of a balcony. R. Browning." Did you everl And I thought Brown- 
ing was so happily married, too. 

Miss Tippitts [darkly] These foreigners! 

Mrs. Dodd. That must be her as Camille. My, I can remem- 
ber reading about that. How people did rave! 

Miss Tippitts. And now — forgotten, only for middle-aged 
folks like us. 

Mrs. Dodd. Not so awfully middle-aged. 

Miss Tippitts [not heeding] Oh, well, you've got to keep on with 
your job if you don't want to be forgotten. Now Bernhardt — I'll 
bet every child in Saspatula knows who she is; and Isotta — five years, 
and only remembered as if she was a name in a history book — the 
greatest actress that ever lived. 

Mrs. Dodd [surprised] Why, Jessica — ! 

Miss Tippitts [gruffly] Oh, it's not her I'm worrying about. . . . 
She's just my age — unless she's lied. All play-actors do. 

Mrs. Dodd [going over to table; picking up photograph] Come here, 
Jessica. Do you suppose — ? 

Miss Tippitts. What? [Looks over her shoulder.] 

Mrs. Dodd. Surely that's a D. 

Miss Tippitts. Does look like it. 

Mrs Dodd. D— A— R— I— Tt is. It's D'Ariano! 

Miss Tippitts. So it is. That Englishwoman told us, you 
remember. 

Mrs. Dodd. Isn't he good looking? Her old lover! 

Miss Tippitts. Sarah Dodd! 

[16] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Mrs. Dodd. Don't be Victorian, Jessica. 

Miss Tippitts. Don't you be immoral at this time of life, Sarah 
Dodd. 

Mrs. Dodd. I only call a spade a spade. 

Miss Tippitts. You've no call to call it a rusty spade. D'Ariano 
and Isotta used to be friends. 

Mrs. Dodd. He wrote all his plays for her. 

Miss Tippits. Well! 

Mrs. Dodd. And you know what Mrs. Plimlu-Bacon said. 

Miss Tippitts [belligerently] She said that they had had a quarrel 
— that they used to be friends. 

Mrs. Dodd. Friends! Quarrel — And it's likely she'd keep 
a picture of him around! 

Miss Tippitts [reluctantly] Well, she did say that Isotta still — 
liked him. 

Mrs. Dodd. "Was in love with him" — that's what she said! 
[Triumphantly.] Friends! 

Miss Tippitts. Oh, have it your way, of course. 

Mrs. Dodd. In spite of him deserting her for that young 
Spanish dancer. 

Miss Tippitts [embarrassed] I don't know what's got into you, 
You talk so — plain. 

Mrs. Dodd [airily] "When in Rome," my poor Jessica — Oh! 

Miss Tippitts. What? 

Mrs. Dodd. I thought I heard something. 

Miss Tippitts. We'd better get out of here. 

Mrs. Dodd. It was just a door, I guess. See, isn't that sweet. 
[She picks up a small box and holds it in her hand.] 

Miss Tippitts [uneasily; looking toward door at back] What is it? 

Mrs. Dodd. It looks like a snuff-box. You don't think that 
Isotta — 

Miss Tippitts [angrily] That's right! Start another scan — 
[Stops, staring. The door at the back has opened quietly. It reveals 
Isotta followed by Giulia.] 

Mrs. Dodd [who has had her back to the door] What's the — 
[ Turns and sees Isotta and Giulia.] Oh ! [A pause of several seconds .] 

Isotta [sweeping in; with her best grande dame manner] Good 
afternoon ! To what do I owe the — extreme pleasure — of this — call ? 

[17] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

[They are tongue-tied.] Dear, long-lost friends, perhaps. No? [Sees 
snuff box in Mrs. Dodd's hand.} Ah-h-h ! I perceive ! The doughty 
hunters of the souvenir! I trust, mesdames, that you have found 
what you have been looking for? [They can say nothing.] It is 
beautiful, valuable, historic: a present from Louis XIV to Mme. de 
Montespan, I believe. And so easily concealed. Really, mesdames, 
I must compliment you on an extremely wise choice. Small and 
easily packed in a suitcase. I am informed that all your country- 
women travel to Europe in a suitcase. Yes? Indeed they look it! 
One of them tried to carry off the little bronze Cupid from Pompeii; 
but that was really too awkward. . . .Besides — she was apprehendedl 
[Giulia remains in the background.] 

Mrs. Dodd. Oh: 

Miss Tippitts. Believe me, madam — 

Isotta [raising an effective hand] Not a word! I beg of you. Do 
not spoil the little drama. [Wrenches open the door at back and holds 
it open with queenly dignity.] Go! 

Mrs. Dodd. Really, we didn't mean a bit of harm. Tony 
said — And so we came — But not souvenirs, goodness me, no. And 
it was such a chance — to see behind the scenes, you know — but we 
wouldn't for the world — [Isotta pays no heed to her babble.] 

Miss Tippitts. I'm sorry. We had no business. [Starts to 
leave.] 

Mrs. Dodd. Of course we're sorry. But I used to play in home 
talent plays in Saspatula — and I do so love everything about the 
stage! And your story — so romantic! 

Miss Tippitts. Come along, Sarah, and shut up. 

Isotta [furiously] My story! Go please! [Mrs. Dodd scuttles 
toward the door. Miss Tippitts is following her when Isotta suddenly 
stops her.] You seem like a woman of sense. 

Miss Tippitts [grimly] I didn't show much today when I let 
Sarah Dodd drag me into this mess. 

Isotta [amused] No, my friend. 

Mrs. Dodd [coming back] And, really, I never should have 
thought of it if — [Isotta pays no attention to her.] 

Isotta. And you were not hunting souvenirs? 

Miss Tippitts. No. 

[18] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Mrs. Dodd. Oh, no, indeed; indeed no.. I only had that — that 
bonbon box — in my hand — 

Isotta [sharply] Snuff box. [She does not look at Mrs, Dodd.] 

Mrs. Dodd [swallowing] Oh. 

Isotta [with a complete change of manner: dramatically , sadly, 
and softly] Mesdames. A poor woman, who has had her small 
successes in life, it may be, retires from that life. It has grown 
monotonous, perhaps; or — or bitter. Convents are no longer the 
mode. She seeks a congenial spot — near old, tried friends, in the 
midst of scenes which have once given her pleasure. She has not all 
the money to take a villa. She is en pension, perhaps, but so arranged 
that she does not have to meet strangers. Is it kind, is it generous, 
mesdames, to violate that seclusion which is the one desire of her 
world- worn heart ? [Dramatic pause.] 

Miss Tippitts. I'm ashamed. 

Mrs. Dodd. Do, pray, dear madame, forgive us. 

Isotta. The poor woman has no wish to be thought of as a 
public monument. She longs only to be — forgotten. 

Miss Tippits. It was dirt mean of us! 

Isotta [suddenly whirling on her] I rather like you. 

Miss Tippitts. Th — thank you. 

Mrs. Dodd [jealously] Come, Jessica, we're intruding. 

Isotta [winningly] You don't think I was too harsh? I only 
wanted you to see how I felt. We're friends? 

Miss Tippitts. Why — [She does not know quite what to do; 
then, pleased, grips her hand in a hard shake.] Of course. 

Mrs. Dodd. Of course. 

Isotta [still speaking only to Miss Tippitts] Good! You know, 
you — rather — remind me of — someone . . . Perhaps you'd like one 
of my photographs? 

Miss Tippitts. Oh, would you — ? 

Mrs. Dodd. Indeed we should! 

Isotta [good-humoredly] Giulia, will you fetch me one — oh, well, 
two — from that drawer? [Giulia does so. Isotta seats herself at one 
of the tables. It is the one on which D' Ariano 1 s picture stands. Isotta 
turns this face down. Her expression for a minute becomes grave and 
sad; then resolutely she brightens to cheerfulness.] Two, that's right. — 
I'll sign them. [As she signs she talks.] A dashing "Isotta". I 

[19] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

had such a time training myself to an artistic illegibility — but I 
finally achieved something that I myself cannot read! [Laughs 
gaily, but artificially.] There! [Hands them to the two.] 

Mrs. Dodd. Oh, thank you so much! 

Miss Tippitts. I — I'm much obliged. Come, Sarah. 

Isotta. Goodbye. And you do not bear a — what you call — 
grudge? We are friends? 

Mrs. Dodd [graciously] To be sure. Good afternoon. 

Miss Tippitts. Thanks. [Another hard handshake. Isotta 
winces a bit.] Goodbye. 

Isotta. Goodbye. [Kisses her hand to them. Exeunt Mrs. 
Dodd and Miss Tippitts.] Oh, my poor hand. Thank heaven I've 
got rid of them at last. Oh, I do feel so ill, Giulia. [Sinks down 
on chaise longue.] 

Giulia [scoldingly] Why did you honey over them? Why did 
you not send them packing? 

Isotta. I can't stay cross — I know I'm foolish. Besides — 
that strong-minded female — didn't she remind you — a little — of — 

Giulia. No! 

Isotta. Of — D'Ariano? 

Giulia. No! 

Isotta. Oh, ve-ry well. And perhaps it was the short hair. 
How we poor fools do defer to these masculine women — when there 
are no men about! 

Giulia. I'd have taught them to come poking in where they 
haven't been asked! 

Isotta. I have been hurt too many times myself, Giulia, to 
enjoy hurting other people. 

Giulia [rubbing her head] Do you feel better, my mistress? 

Isotta. My heart is still leaden. 

Giulia [crossly] More likely it is your liver. 

Isotta. Giulia! What an ugly thought — Oh, why do you 
think Maree doesn't come? 

Giulia. Shall I bathe your head? 

Isotta. Oh, I don't care — Giulia! 

Giulia. Yes? 

Isotta. Do I look — interesting? 

[20] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Giulia. Bah, signora, such considerations! When you leave 
the stage, why do you not leave the theater behind you? 

Isotta [plaintively] I don't know. Don't be cross, Giulia. 
[Enter Mary hurriedly at hack.] 

Mary [breathless] Oh, I'm so sorry. I had to wait so long at 
the chemist's shop. Here are the powders, Giulia. How do you feel, 
dear ? 

Isotta. Miserable! Maree! 

Mary. Yes, dear. 

Isotta. Why were you so long? — You needn't stand and listen, 
Giulia. Go into the next room and fix that horrid stuff. There's 
a comfortable keyhole; you will miss nothing. [Giulia, bridling, 
goes through door at right \ Why were you so long? 

Mary. Why — what do you mean? I made your excuses to 
the Carduccis, and then I went to the chemist's — and on home. 
What do you — 

Isotta. Are you sure you did not meet — someone you shouldn't? 

Mary. Signora ! 

Isotta. You didn't meet Pippo? 

Mary. I did not. 

Isotta. Good! 

Mary. You must think highly of me to believe that I should 
be happy in arranging a forbidden meeting when you have been taken 
home ill. 

Isotta. Tut, tut, you sound like an English Meess out of an 
eighteenth century novel. I was young myself once — a hundred 
years or so back. 

Mary. You don't approve of my — my friendship for Pippo; 
and that is enough. You can trust me. 

Isotta [nawely] What queer people the English are. So 
honorable! [Mary hardly knows how to take this.] You would never 
be fitted to cope with Pippo. He's a perfect little monster of in- 
trigue, that boy. All nice Italians are. 

Mary. Is that why you refuse even to let me see him? 

Isotta. You know very well why I refuse to let you see him. 

Mary. Just because he's Italian! 

Isotta. No. Just because he is a man. I don't approve 
of men. 

[21] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Mary. And are women so much better? 

Isotta. Women are faithful in love, my child. Men aren't. 

Mary. I cant believe that — it's too sweeping. 

Isotta. Oh, you English — so unreasonably logical. [Rises; 
becomes "emotional".] I shall tell you this. You love a man. You 
think of no one else for the thirty best years of your life. And then — 
there comes a putty-faced gutter-chit of eighteen — and — like that 
[snaps her fingers] he is off after her. Youth and a graceful body — 
and they compensate a man [spitting out the word] for the love and 
companionship of thirty years! That's what men are! 

Mary. I know Pippo — 

Isotta. Pooh, you little silly. Wait till he's on the way to 
sixty. That's the age a stupid little dancer can make a man think 
he's an irresistible Adonis. 

Mary. But thirty years of happiness — 

Isotta. Bah! If you've eaten a good dinner, does an emetic 
make you remember it with any pleasure?. ..I tell you: I do not 
approve of marriage. I do not approve of men. I do not approve 
of Italian men. I do not approve of Pippo. — Giulia! 

Giulia [from next room] Yes, signora. 

Isotta. You have been listening long enough. That medicine! 
[Enter Giulia.] 

Giulia. Here it is. [Hands glass to Isotta.] And I wasn't 
listening. 

Isotta. Giulia! I have lived with you for a long time. Don't 
let me lose all respect for your intelligence. [Drinks from glass; 
makes wry face.] Ugh! [Flings herself down on chaise longue again.] 
Oh, la, la, la, la. 

Mary [coldly] Would you like this pillow? 

Isotta. Thank you, dear. [Looks up at her beseechingly as 
Mary adjusts it under her head. Mary picks up a book and rather 
sulkily seats herself at the other side of the room, making a great pretence 
of reading.] 

Giulia [who has got a basin and is laying cloths on Isotta' s head] 
The sun wasn't so hot today. I don't see how you came to faint. 

Isotta. You silly old woman. It wasn't the sun. 

Giulia. No? And what was it? 

Isotta. Didn't you hear what the Carduccis said to me? 

[22] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Giulia. No. 

Mart [before she thinks] O-oh! They said — [Bites her lip and 
ostentatiously resumes her book.] 

Isotta. Exactly. You heard, didn't you, Maree? 

Mary. Yes. 

Isotta [triumphantly] There, you see, Giulia. It wasn't the sun. 

Giulia. Well, what was it? 

Isotta. You tell Madam Inquisitive, Maree. 

Mary [reluctantly] Well, Signora Carducci said that — Signor 
D'Ariano — 

Giulia. That beast! 

Isotta. Giulia! You forget yourself. 

Giulia [muttering] I wish I could as easily forget him. 

Isotta. Go on, Maree. 

Mary. . .That Signor D'Ariano was in Rome — 

Giulia [rudely] Of course he's in Rome. That's where La 
Spagnola is. 

Isotta [half-rising] That is enough, Giulia. I do not hear 
that creature's name. [Sinks back again.] 

Mary. Shall I go on? — was in Rome, making aeroplane 
flights at the exposition. 

Giulia [cackling shrilly] Yah-ha-ha-ha. A man of his age driving 
a flying machine! What an old, blind, moth-eaten eagle it is! 

Isotta. Stop! If he is killed, Giulia — 

Giulia. Small chance! 

Isotta [quietly and impressively] That — is what — has happened. 

Giulia [dropping the basin] Eh? [Mary is startled too.] 

Isotta [rising] Oh, do not look so incredulous. It is as I say. 
I know. When Signora Carducci told me, that very minute it was 
as if an icy arm bent about my throat, strangling me. I saw his 
machine lying on the ground, twisted and scorched. And he — a 
mangled heap beneath it. Then it was I fainted. Do not tell me! 
I saw. [Rubs her hand across her face.] 

Mary [running to her] Dear ... lie down again. 

Isotta. I'm tired of Giulia mussing over me. I'll go to my 
room. . .Oh, my poor doves. It is time for me to feed them. 

Mary. I'll feed them. You rest, dear. 

Isotta. Well... And I don't want to see you, Giulia. You 

[23] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

are a pig today ! [Exit Isotta, right. Giulia goes sullenly about her 
business of picking up books and papers, straightening cushions 
and furniture, etc.] 

Mary. Will you hand me the grain, Giulia? [Giulia hands 

her a small basket^ Thank you. [Goes to balcony at left — scatters 

feed for doves, which are seen fluttering about her. After a minute or 

so there is a knock at the door at back. Giulia opens it. Mrs. Dodd 

wiggles in through the narrow opening that Giulia allows.] 

Mrs. Dodd [in a confidential whisper] Your name's Giulia, isn't 
it? 

Giulia. Yes. 

Mrs Dodd. Tony's drunk. Disgraceful condition. Why the 
pension hires such a scandalous butler — ! So I had to take it on my 
own hands and rescue the young man who was — 

Giulia. Young man? 

Mrs. Dodd. Yes, he was asking for you. 

Giulia. For me? 

Mrs. Dodd. Yes, such a nice looking young fellow. Your 
son? No? Well, / didn't know. 

Giulia. And he's asking for me? 

Mrs. Dodd. Yes. I wasn't to let anybody but you know that 
he was here. 

Giulia [grimly] Let me see him. [Mrs. Dodd slips back through 
the door. Giulia holds the door open only a crack. In a minute or so 
she talks through this crack to somebody evidently on the other side.] 
Oh, so it's you, signore. I thought as much. No, you can't see 
her — It is impossible, signore. Who should know that better than 
you? What? — Indeed I couldn't. No, no — Yes, she's here — But 
the signora — 

Isotta [offstage at right] Giulia! 

Giulia. S-sh! — Yes, signora. [Isotta comes to door at right \ 

Isotta. Where did you put my blue slippers? [Giulia slams 
shut the door that she has been holding.] What's the — Were you 
talking to someone? 

Giulia. No ! 

Isotta. Is that true? 

Giulia. Yes. 

Isotta. I shall see for myself. [Strolls gracefully to door at 

[24] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

back, opens it quickly and softly. She is evidently satisfied and shuts 
it.] H'm. Another star in your crown, Giulia, dear! 

Giulia [breathing deeply] I told you there was no one. 

Isotta [satirically reproachful] I always trust you, my Giulia! 
Where did you say — 

Giulia. In the middle slipper drawer, signora. Shall I get 
them? 

Isotta. You shall stay out! [Exit Isotta, right. Giulia 
waits some little time before she opens the door at back again.] 

Giulia [softly] S-s-st! Are you still there?. . .You see how it is. 
You must go at once — No, no, no; it is impossible; you must go — 
What do I want with your money? — Take your foot out of the door, 
signore! [Mary comes in from balcony.] 

Mary. Who is it, Giulia? [The door is pushed open. Pippo 
comes in over Giulia s protests^ 

Pippo. Mary! 

Mary. Pippo! What are you doing here? 

Giulia. You cant stay here. 

Mary. No, no. You must go. 

Pippo [heedless of their warnings; taking Mary's hands] My 
little blonde English angel. 

Mary. Oh, Pippo, why did you come? You knew that I 
wasn't to see you. 

Pippo. And you thought that would stop me! 

Mary [looking down] I didn't — know. 

Pippo. You darling! — Giulia, just a minute. [Hands her coins.] 

Giulia. Bah, I don't want your money. [Pockets it hurriedly.] 

Pippo. For your old age, my Giulia. 

Giulia. That's come and gone, signore. I must be in my 
second childhood to let you stay in here. 

Pippo. Only for the smallest minute. 

Giulia. Well, I'll do what I can do. [Exit Giulia at right.] 

Mary. Oh, I am so frightened to have you here. 

Pippo. But a little glad? 

Mary. Of course. [They sit on the small sofa well toward the 
front of the stage.] We must talk very, very quietly. 

Pippo. Mary? 

Mary. Y-yes ? 

[25] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Pippo. No, look at me. [She languishes.] You're going to 
give me up? 

Mary. What can I do? 

Pippo. You're going to give in to the signora? 
Mary. She has done everything for me. I can't turn against 
her now, when she is saddened and embittered. 

Pippo. But why? — why? She let me see you. She must 
have known that I was falling in love with you. And she said nothing. 
Mary. Ah, but you see, she did not know that I was falling 
in love with you. 
Pippo. Mary! 
Mary. No, no; we mustn't. 

Pippo. But why does she object? I have money — I have 
prospects — 

Mary [with a sad little laugh] But you're a man. 
Pippo. Is that a crime? 

Mary. You are a man — an Italian — Tell me, Pippo. Are 
Italian men so faithless? 

Pippo. All Italians flatter themselves with the pleasing delusion 
that they are. 

Mary [reproachfully] You've been reading Oscar Wilde. 
Pippo. On my honor. 
Mary. They you have no excuse ! 
Pippo. I'm sorry, dear — I'm unhappy. 
Mary [in a small voice] So am I — 
Pippo. Couldn't you let me take you away from her? 
Mary. Oh, Pippo; no. 

Pippo [moodily] And it doesn't matter about me — ! 
Mary. You know — 

Pippo. And I was doing so well at the law — My father was 
almost pleased. And now — ! 

Mary. Oh, it mustn't make any difference, Pippo. You 
must go on — you must go on. 

Pippo. How can I? And I had the little villa picked out — 
my father was to give it to us. It's on the way up to Fiesole. There 
is a high stone wall — and cypress and olive trees — and an old Roman 
well — and pink tile roofs. And at night when the moon shines — 
[He can say no more.] 

[26] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Mary [softly] I'd have loved it, Pippo. 

Pippo. But what's all that — now? You won't — and that is 
all there is to it. 

Mary. I cant, Pippo. I can't leave her. 

Pippo [wearily] Oh, we've been over all this before. It is no 
use going over it again. 

Mary. You shouldn't have come. 

Pippo. I'd better leave. 

Mary. Oh — goodbye. 

Pippo. Goodbye. [He makes no move.] 

Mary [after a bit, haughtily] Well, aren't you going? 

Pippo. Eh — yes, certainly, I'm going! [Still he makes no move.] 

Mary [after an interval] Well? Are you still here? 

Pippo [suddenly seizing her] Oh, Mary, I cant give you up. 

Mary [her voice muffled] I — wish — you — wouldn't! [Enter 
Isotta at right. She stands back looking at Pippo and Mary without 
their knowledge.] 

Pippo. Mary! [Mary sobs softly on his shoulder.] There, 
there. [He soothes her. Nothing is said for some time.] 

Mary [disengaging herself at last] We must think. 

Pippo [following her on the sofa] Why do anything so — so sensible? 

Mary. No, no; stay over there. I must decide what I'm to do. 

Isotta. If it is a decision in any way connected with me, pray 
let me join you. [They start up. Pippo places himself in front of 
Mary.] You absurd boy. You needn't act like a ferocious mother 
hen. I am not going to slap Maree — though she does deserve it. 

Pippo [still belligerent] It's my fault. 

Isotta. Of course it is. Maree is English and the soul of honor! 

Mary. Signora! 

Isotta [drawling] Re-pen-tance-is-good-for-the-soul. Will you 
not mend your fault, signore — quickly? 

Pippo. I've been attempting to mend yours, signora. 

Isotta. Oh, mine — mine are past that. 

Mary. Please go, Pippo. You shouldn't have come. 

Isotta. How wisely you speak, my Maree. You shouldn't 
have come — and in future I'll see that you do not come. 

Pippo. Mary loves me. 

Isotta. Love! Why not? Maree loves the little doves, the 

[27] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

little goats and donkeys, the little fisher-children; even — at times — 
me. She loves many things. But you, selfish one, would have her 
love only you. Bah. Specialization is what those pigs of Germans 
believe in. It is bad for art. 

Pippo. I can promise you — I can promise you — much. I'll 
be so good to Mary. 

Isotta. Promises, I have found, signore, are only for men to 
break. 

Pippo. I confess it; I am a man — I am an Italian — but of 
north Italy. 

Isotta. North Italians are so much the worse. They prate 
about their virtue. 

Pippo. Oh, I cannot bandy epigrams with you, signora. 

Isotta. My dear sir; the maker of an epigram never likes to 
have his epigram capped by a wittier. I forgive you. 

Mary. Oh, what is the good of all this? We get nowhere. 
Pippo, I have told you. It is no use. 

Isotta. You hear her? 

Pippo. But I will not believe. 

Mary. You must. 

Pippo. Then you never loved me. 

Mary. Oh, I did — I do — but does that make any difference? 
[Pippo looks at her silently , then slowly starts to leave.] 

Pippo [dully] Well — goodbye. 

Mary. G — goodbye. 

Isotta [disappointedly] You're really going? So quietly? With- 
out pacing the floor? Without a young Niagara of bitter, passionate 
words? Without even so much as tearing your hair or thumping 
your chest? Without snatching Maree into your arms? La, la! 
A dramatic situation is fairly wasted on you, signore! 

Mary. Pippo! 

Pippo [coming back and taking her hands] Oh, Mary, you are so 
heartless to give me up. 

Mary. You are going without even a little word? 

Pippo [with sudden resolution] No! This is what I say: You 
may send me away, but I'm coming back. I'll never give you up! 
[Kisses both her hands.] God keep you, my little love. [Exit Pippo, 
back.] 

[28] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Mary [half-starting after him] Pippo! 

Isotta [with satisfaction] That is a little more like it. Young 
love, — how sweetly charming it is. 

Mary. Oh, signora, signora. You have broken my heart. 

Isotta [embracing her] My little Maree. [Mary sobs on her 
shoulder.] I cannot bear to make you cry. You know that I would 
not? The good God showed a cruel irony in making us women cry 
so much when it is so bad for our looks. There, dear. Go bathe 
your eyes. [A knock at the door.] Sapristi! Some fool entering 
in where it seems only fools dare tread. — Giulia! 

Giulia [offstage at right] Yes, Madame. [Enter Giulia.] 

Isotta. There is someone at the door. Answer it. Quick! — 
Go, child. [Exit Mary, right. Giulia goes to door.] 

Giulia. Flowers. [Takes big box.] 

Isotta. Take them away! I do not want them. What are 
flowers to me? 

Giulia [stolidly] Shall I put them in water? 

Isotta. Oh — ! Throw them into the water — there — out the 
window! 

Giulia [opening them and picking out the card] "The Countessa 
Montalbano." I would not throw them away. 

Isotta. Snob! Here. [Snatches them from Giulia s hands 
and throws them down over the balcony^ That for all the flowers in 
the world! [Coming back.] 

Giulia. Play acting! 

Isotta. Play acting! When my heart and soul are quivering 
with wretchedness! And no time — no time — to think. First those 
awful trippers — then Pippo — then Maree. I must comfort, and 
scold, and smirk, and smirk, and comfort, and scold. On this day! 
And now, flowers — ! 

Giulia. They were good flowers. 

Isotta. If I had but one little minute — to give to my sorrow — 
You've heard nothing? 

Giulia. What is it that I should hear? 

Isotta. Imbecile! Oh, Giulia, Giulia. This horrible waiting, 
— waiting — waiting. [Paces restlessly up and down.] And this 
minute I see him — [whispering] lying dead. 

Giulia. No, no, he'll not die. He is too cruel to die. 

[19] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Isotta [somewhat brokenly] Oh, Giulia, charity. Perhaps he 
was not so much to blame. I was getting — old. Yes, yes, it's true, 
my Giulia. No euphemisms. And La Spagnola — Ah, she could 
dance, that hussy. And her body, so slim and pliable. And her 
little, wicked face — ! And I had him for thirty years. Thirty 
years is a long, long time in a man's faithfulness. 

Giulia. And after thirty years — to throw you over — for La 
Spagnola. 

Isotta. Oh, no! I hate her! I hate him! Oh, what do I 
say, what do I say! I do not mean it. Oh, Gold help me, I do — 

Giulia. That is as it should be. I hate them, too, the two of 
them! [There is another knock at the door.] 

Isotta [sharply] What's that! 

Giulia. It's nothing, signora, nothing. [But she looks 
frightened.] I'll open the door. [Opens door at back a crack. Says] 
I shall see. [Shuts it. Her voice shows her relief.] Only Signora 
Chigi to pay her respects. 

Isotta [hysterically relieved] I'll not see her, the old harridan! 
Tell her so! 

Giulia [going back to door] The signora is not feeling well. She 
is able to see no one. [Shuts door.] 

Isotta [theatrically] Why cannot they leave me to my dead! — 
Giulia. 

Giulia. Well, madame? 

Isotta [putting hand to head] Oh — I forgot — I am going mad, 
I think. 

Giulia [going up to her] Do not carry on so! 

Isotta. You do not know what I feel — Sometimes I think that 
I am like the mother of a wild son. No longer in his confidence — 
sitting at home — dreading, fearing, yearning to hear a word of him. 
Bad news is anguish, no news is anguish, good news is the wildest 
anguish of all. Oh, my poor, old, wicked D'Ariano! 

Giulia. I hate him! 

Isotta. No, no — ! [Stops suddenly. Looks back of Giulia, 
intently.] 

Giulia [whispering fearfully] What is it? 

Isotta. Giulia! Just there — now — 

Giulia. Wh-what — ? 

[30] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Isotta [excited, almost happy] He stood! There! [Giulia 
screams.] Hush, be still, you fool. There he stood. I saw him. 
He was laughing; you know how he crinkled up his nose — and point- 
ing at you — and lifting his shoulder — He came — to me! 

Giulia [crossing herself] Holy mother of God. 

Isotta. To me! And you laughed at me. But I told you I 
saw him — lying under that devilish, broken-winged machine — dead. 
And now he has come — to me! [Calling out somewhat wildly.] 
D'Ariano! 

Giulia. Hush, hush, for kind heaven's sake. 

Isotta. D'Ariano! 

Giulia. Oh, hush > my signora! 

Isotta. Listen! What is that? 

Giulia. What — is — what? 

Isotta. Don't you hear? [A sound comes up through the open 
windows as of boys calling news.] 

Giulia. No, no. It is nothing. 

Isotta [going toward windows; calmly] Luigi is coming up in a 
boat. 

Giulia. No, no! 

Isotta. He has brought the news. 

Giulia. No, no. 

Isotta. Fool! Am I a child? [A loud knock at the door, back.] 
Answer it, Giulia. [Giulia goes to the door, opens it. Enter Mrs. 
Dodd.] Yes, madame? 

Mrs. Dodd. Oh, madame. Jessica said I wasn't to come; 
but when I heard — And it may not have been true what Mrs. 
Plimly-Bacon told us, but his picture is in your room — And so I 
came — 

Isotta. Say it, madame! 

Mrs. Dodd. Oh, but I haven't prepared you! 

Isotta. Say it! 

Mrs. Dodd. Well — There's been an accident — to his aero- 
plane — 

Isotta. Go on. 

Mrs. Dodd. And the great D'Ariano — 

Isotta [impatiently] Finish it, madame. 

Mrs. Dodd. — is — killed! 

[31] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Isotta [passionately] Now, Giulia, will you believe me? [Mrs. 
Dodd is shocked.} 

Giulia. God have mercy upon his soul! 

Isotta [to Mrs. Dodd] And now you have played your little part 
— go! [Mrs. Dodd stares back at her.] Oh, how many times in one 
small day do I have to order that woman to leave my sight! [Mrs. 
Dodd goes, reluctantly. Isotta falls into a chair.] Not before her, 
not before her! 

Giulia [hovering over her; calls] Oh, Meess Maree! [Enter Mary 
running in, right.] 

Mary. I heard. Oh, my poor, poor madame. [Kneels down 
beside her chair.] 

Isotta. Dead! 

Mary [pleadingly] It is better so! 

Isotta. Dead! — Do you remember, Guilia, the day we 
first saw him? I had on a sprigged muslin, with yellow ribbons. 
With what an air he leaned on his walking stick as he read his 
Borghese to us! How my heart swelled when he took me aside to 
explain Lucrezia s part! — And the night we bowed, hand in hand, 
at our first triumph! And the supper afterward — when he put the 
crown of roses on my whirling head — Dead! 

Giulia. And the night he caught you in the wings and kissed 
you. 

Isotta. I slapped him — and he kissed me again. 

Giulia [admiringly] He was a devil ! 

Isotta. And his quick, deep-set eyes, and the slim strength 
of him — they never could change — Dead ! 

Giulia. It was that hussy's fault! 

Issota. She didn't love him, did she, Giulia? All she cared 
for was his fame ? 

Giulia. That is all, the baggage! 

Isotta. Oh, the fool, the fool! To think that he could grow 
young again. Spurning the good earth that had given him all his 
desires — to fall — dead. — You see me, Maree. I am a piteous object. 
It is love — love — that has brought me low. Look on these ugly, 
middle-aged tears and be glad that I have spared you this. 

Mary. Dear — 

Isotta [as if struck by a new thought] But he did come to me, 

[32] 



ISOTTA'S TRIUMPH 

Giulia ! I saw him. You were here. He stood there. And laughed 
— at you. He came to me — to me — -not to La Spagnola! 

Mary [frightened] Dear — 

Isotta. Tome! His spirit flew to me — Why, don't you see? 
It is so plain! He knew that now she would have no use for him! 
He can no longer give her money — jewels. And she — how frightened 
she would be to have him by her. But I — He knew that I needed — 
wanted him — even in death — 

Giulia. My mistress! 

Isotta. It is so simple, Giulia. You see it, too? She will 
have none of him — dead. Dead, he turns from her to me. And 
me! I am avenged! It is my triumph! My great triumph! 

Mary [stroking her hand; as if to a child] Yes, dear; your triumph. 
[A pause.] 

Isotta. Maree? 

Mary. Yes — ? 

Isotta. Love — we must have it, I suppose. If you would like 
— you may send for Pippo. 

Mary [radiantly] Madame! You mean it? 

Isotta. It is much the same — in the end — I find. [Mary 
dashes to balcony.] 

Mary [calling] Luigi, Luigi ! A message for you to take. Come 
here ! [Motions toward herself. She remains on the balcony for the 
remainder of the scene.] 

Giulia. My mistress! 

Isotta [whispering; smiling a little] No, my bad one — she does 
not want you, and I do — I do — Oh, it is good to have you — safe — at 
last— 

Giulia [accusingly] You are enjoying yourself! 

Isotta [with a complete change of manner] Take that! [She slaps 
her — hard.] 

CURTAIN 



[33] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 
A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

MATHILDE SHAPIRO 



CHARACTERS 

Jane Bannon 

Edith Loring Her Hostess 

John Loring Edith's Husband 

Peter Loring John's Brother 

Hope Loring John's Sister 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Scene: The Loving apartment, New York. Atmosphere sub- 
dued, quiet, quite correct. 

Time: One o'clock of a Saturday afternoon. 

Curtain : on the Loring living room, handsomely, but convention- 
ally jurni shed. A door at the left leads to the outer hallway. Portieres 
at right, back, separate the living room from the dining room and the 
inner rooms of the apartment. 

Enter Jane from the dining room. She is young, high-spirited, 
and good-looking. She is in a towering rage. Edith comes after her, 
evidently distressed, but quite helpless. Edith is of the same age as 
Jane, but she is pale, worn-looking, and appears much older. 

Jane. Edith, another meal in this house and I shall go mad! 
He's impossible! [She runs about the room, picking up pillows, books, 
etc. and dashing them to the floor. Edith follows her helplessly, picking 
up the debris in Jane's wake.] I never saw a man like him in my 
life. Not an argument in his head. Won't take you up on any 
subject whatever. Simply won't, won't, won't argue — from policy! 
Oh-h-h, Edith! For heaven's sake, stop following me about in that 
absurd fashion. You make me nervous! [Edith comes to a dead 
stop.] Say something!! Please!!! 

Edith. Jane, darling, what can I say? I'm sorry you've 
found your visit such a trial. 

Jane. But it's you I'm thinking of. He's killing you. It's 
terrible to see you sit there — you — Edith Harvey, the firebrand — 
now so quiet and still, so helpless — all the fight, the splendid fight 
in you dead from lack of nourishment. And opposite you — that 
beautiful clam of a husband. I always hated oysters and I thought 
you did too — once. 

Edith [sadly] Once. 

Jane [with a shiver] Don't talk in that sepulchral tone. 

Edith [with artificially induced spirit] ONCE ! 

Jane [instantly contrite] My poor darling! How came you ever 

[39] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

to marry that man? You — for whom we hoped so much. Why- 
did you give up your dream dragon for a clam? A clam? Surely 
you knew what he was like before you married him. 

Edith. But it was different then. It was nice to have my own 
way in everything — without fuss. 

Jane. I should think that would have made you suspicious. 

Edith. But it didn't. It bored me a little, I must confess, 
to have him give in every time and absolutely refuse to argue with 
me — but I thought things would pick up after marriage. And then — 
I suppose I was in love with him. You understand. 

Jane. I don't understand at all how you could have stood 
such a courtship and such a man. You who were to lead a couple 
of revolutions and die on your feet! You're dying on your feet, all 
right — but how different it all is! Here you are in a conventional 
house, with an ultra-conventional husband who hasn't an argument 
in his head, your one dissipation a matinee with a conventional, 
mid-Victorian sister-in-law. . . . 

Edith [wickedly] And the brother-in-law — what of him? 

Jane. We won't talk about him — I have hopes for Peter. 

Edith. Well, when you've married Peter. . . . 

Jane. Who says I am to marry Peter? 

Edith. Why, Peter, of course. 

Jane. Oh, does he? Peter's wrong. But go on — ''When 
I've married Peter — " 

Edith. — you'll have a chance to see what you can do with 
the Loring temperament. / shall watch out for what it will do to 
you. 

Jane. Nonsense! Peter is not like John. He's different. 

Edith. I don't believe he's any different — at bottom. 

Jane. Cynic! I have quarreled with Peter and I assure you, 
he can hold his own. Contradiction is his middle name, [with 
conviction] He likes to argue. 

Edith. Likes to argue? A Loring? He's playing up to you — 
playing on your weakness. 

Jane. Playing up to me? Why, Peter gets purple with rage 
at the things I do and say. [idea] But you're proving my point. 
Did John ever argue and contradict when he was courting you — 
even to play up? You see, Peter is different. 

[40] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Edith. But that doesn't. . . .[relapsing, more jaded than before] 
Well, I suppose you know better. 

Jane. Edith, my poor, poor Edith 1 We must think of some- 
thing, something to make that precious John of yours break out. 

Edith. Oh-h-h-h-h. [This is a groan] 

Jane. I'd give an eye to make him so mad he'd want to throw 
something. 

Edith [ecstatically] a chair perhaps — or no — plates. If John 
would only fling the dinner plates at me, I'd die a happy woman. 
But I dream of the impossible. 

Jane. No you don't. Not while I'm here. I'm sure there's 
some fight in that man and I mean to bring it out. If he breaks out 
once, there'll be some hope for the future. 

Edith. How do you propose to go about it? 

Jane. I don't know — 

Edith [plainly disappointed] Oh. 

Jane. — now, but it'll come. I'll find something he's terribly 
prejudiced against and feed him up on that. I'll make that man 
lose his temper if it's the last thing I do on earth! [Enter John, 
a good-looking, calm, efficient sort of man — about 35. He talks slowly 
and deliberately — there is never the slightest trace of a controversial note 
in his voiced 

John. You left the table rather suddenly, Miss Bannon. I 
hope you are not ill. 

Jane. No, thank you. I never felt better in my life. You 
know I've been wandering about pretty aimlessly in the last five 
years — a hopeless dilettante, dabbling in this and that, but now, 
I have at last got a purpose in life — a deadly, serious purpose. 

John [smiling And it came over you with such force — ? 

Jane. Yes. I was lifted from my seat at the luncheon table 
in sheer exaltation. I wanted to scream or sing. I didn't think it 
wise to do either — there — so I rushed out. I am going to meditate 
now. [She goes toward door at right; takes cigarette and lights it.] 
I never realized before that life without a purpose is empty — empty — 
as home without a mother. Purpose — [Exit] 

Edith [fondly] Crazy girl! To think that I was like that once! 
[she sighs] 

[41] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

John [taking magazine from the table and settling in armchair 
to read] Were you? 

Edith. Don't you remember? 

John. I prefer you as you are — now. A girl like that might 
be rather a trial in an orderly household. Cigarettes, bobbed hair, 
futurist pictures. It makes me uncomfortable to think about it. 
Those are terrific things she has hung up about the walls of her room. 
I wish she'd keep her door closed. Does she really like them — or 
is it only a pose? 

Edith. Some of them are really lovely. They are a bit un- 
expected, I know, but — 

John. I suppose so, I suppose so. No use fussing about it — 
everyone to his taste — [Re-enter Jane, excited, a heavy book under 
her arm. She fairly slides into the room.] 

Jane. Mr. Loring, I knew I was right. And I've found just 
the thing I wanted to bear out my statement. You were entirely 
wrong about England's responsibility — entirely — Viscount Bryce — 
[impatiently] Oh, where is that page? 

John. Are you still worrying about that rather useless dis- 
cussion at the luncheon table? 

Jane. Useless discussion! Mr. Loring, how can you call 
discussion of the great world questions "useless"? And this of all 
others! 

John. You get so excited about little things, Miss Bannon. 
I withdraw the "useless". I just don't argue about things because 
to me it seems a waste of time and energy. You never get anywhere. 

Jane. But this time, we can get somewhere. There's enough 
evidence in this book to convince a regiment of skeptics. Viscount 
Bryce — 

John. As an Englishman, he would naturally defend his 
country's position. Very natural, very natural. 

Jane. He's not writing as an Englishman, Mr. Loring, but 
as a seeker after truth. And so far as it is humanly possible, he is 
impartial. Just listen to this. You have no case at all. 

John. I never had a "case", Miss Bannon — only an opinion. 
I'm sorry I advanced it if it bothers you so. I withdraw it. Are 
we friends again? 

[42] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Jane. But I don't want you to withdraw it just because it 
bothers me — but because you honestly see you were wrong. 

John. Very well, I am wrong. I capitulate — entirely. 

Jane. You are incorrigible, Mr. Loring. I shall lose my 
temper in a minute. 

John. Don't. It isn't worth it. More nervous energy gone 
to waste. It doesn't matter enough — what you or I think or why we 
think it. 

Jane. But we can at least talk about what we think — we 
sharpen our wits that way. 

John. And lose our tempers — and our friends. 

Jane. I repeat, you are incorrigible. But won't you listen to 
this? [she takes up the book to read] It can't hurt you — and when you've 
heard all, you'll admit — 

John [rising and looking about for his paper] I'll admit everything 
now — to save time — and energy — and to please a pretty woman — 
who takes herself and the world very seriously. 

Jane [madder than ever — with a stamp of her foot] But I'm not a 
pretty woman, Mr. Loring. I'm just a case, in the neuter gender. 

John. You're a case, then — and neuter, if you will. Edith, 
has the boy brought my paper? [Jane loses her head completely — 
she flings the book to the floor and bangs herself out. Edith jumps at 
the resounding crash. John, quite unmoved, picks up the book and 
replaces it on the table.] 

Edith. That was too bad of you John — you might have listened 
to her. 

John. That girl wastes enough energy to rehabilitate a regiment 
of shell-shocked men. She ought to be broken of the habit. 

Edith. I felt all along you disapproved of her. 

John. My dear Edith, pray do not misunderstand me. Miss 
Bannon is your friend and a charming girl. I like her. Hers is a 
refreshing personality. 

Edith. But her style needs editing, you think. 

John. I do not say that. 

Edith. No. That's Peter's affair. The second Loring to 
see the thing through. 

John. I don't understand you, Edith. Is Peter going to 
marry Miss Bannon? 

[43] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Edith. If Jane is so stupid as to take him — yes. 

John. She might do worse. 

Edith [under her breath] She couldn't. But you don't approve — ? 

John. Why should I not approve? Peter is his own master. 
It's not for me to interfere in his affairs — even if I wished it. You 
never get anything that way you know — opposing people. Too 
much trouble — Where is my paper, Edith? [this as he looks about 
the room.] 

Edith. The boy leaves it in the box sometimes. I'll see. 

John. Don't trouble, I'll go. [Exit John. Edith sinks in 
chair. Enter Peter from the street. He carries a package. Peter 
is younger than John, quick and excited in his movements as in his 
speech^ 

Peter. Hello, Edith. Sorry not to have been here for lunch. 

Edith [not very cordial] John waited for you. 

Peter. Sorry. [Enter Jane, not in very good temper.] Hello, 
Jane. [Jane mumbles a "Hello" with a grimace — the fixed smile 
effect.] Really this is too much. I didn't expect such a hearty wel- 
come. I am overwhelmed. Pray sit down, Peter, and make your- 
self comfortable. Thank you, I will. 

Jane. Idiot! 

Peter. Hope's coming in in a minute. I picked her up at 
the door and left her there — playing with the next door neighbor's 
baby. 

Jane. Poor fool! 

Edith. We were going to a matinee this afternoon, Hope and 
I. But I never felt less like going out than I do to-day. [A slight 
pause] 

Peter. Lunched with Edwards to-day. He has a bug on the 
Village. You know — Greenwich — thinks it the real thing. Couldn't 
get out of going on any excuse. What did I miss here — anything 
exciting? [with a grin] 

Edith. No. The usual thing. John broke a couple of lunch 
plates in a heated argument with Jane. 

Peter. That's not even funny. 

Jane [savagely] Do we look as if it struck us funny? [She 
notices the package Peter has with him. Her curiosity is aroused.] 
What have you in that package, Peter? 

[44] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Peter. I almost forgot. Something for Edith. 

Edith. For me? 

Peter. John bought it. It's that queer Chinese vase you 
admired at Keeley's last week. That was enough to make John run 
all over the city to match it. Couldn't get it right off, so he ordered 
it and asked me to call for it. 

Edith. The Chinese vase? But I didn't mean he should get 
it for me! 

Peter. Your every wish, my dear. This for the devoted John. 
[with an elaborate bow] 

Jane. It was nice of him. [then opening the package and taking 
out a hideously colored object] Edith, you didn't ask for this? It 
makes me seasick just to look at it. 

Edith. It's atrocious, I know. I didn't really want it. I 
only wanted John to tell me he thought my taste was dreadful. Vain 
hope! Well, I suppose I must thank you, Peter, for bringing it, 
though you might have dropped it on the way home. [Exit Edith] 

Peter. Now I say, Jane. That's a fine way to accept a gift 
that a man has run all about town to get, isn't it? What should it 
have been? A million dollar diamond necklace? 

Jane. Edith wants neither million dollar diamond necklaces 
nor hideous Chinese vases. 

Peter. What then? Pooh! Edith doesn't know what she 
wants. She has too much — that's what's the matter with her. She 
has everything in the world a woman can want. John is so devoted 
to her that he's the talk of the town. And yet she goes about with 
a careworn expression — jaded, bored to extinction. The atmosphere 
in this house is getting on my nerves. I'm going to get out of it all. 

Jane. Going to live your own life, Peter? Don't forget to 
bang the door as you go. 

Peter. You can laugh. You've been here only two weeks 
and don't really know how terrible it can be. 

Jane. Oh, don't I? 

Peter. There you have it — even you — after two weeks. I 
can't see what a live wire like you can see to like in Edith. I was 
terribly disappointed when I met her. You know John's a bit slow 
and what he needed was a wild, interesting sort of person to speed 
him up — but Edith! That combination's fatal. 

[45] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Jane. Yes, Peter, that combination is fatal — but do you think 
Edith is to blame for the atmosphere of this house? 

Peter. Who then? 

Jane. Who then? Do you think Edith was always like this? 
You think me a livewire. Do you know that I was a Patient Griselda, 
a modest little violet compared to the Edith of five years ago? 

Peter. What? 

Jane. Yes. Edith was a firebrand. That girl wouldn't let 
a chance for an argument go by — for a gold mine. She would rather 
argue than eat! And how she could talk! She could convince you 
that day was night. You look incredulous. 

Peter. W r ell, Jane, you must admit that it's queer — 

Jane. I do — devilish queer. I don't wonder you don't believe 
me. I shouldn't either if I hadn't been fortunate enough to know her 
before she came under the shadow of the House of Loring. 

Peter. Oh, Jane, the "shadow of the House of Loring"! 

Jane. I mean it. John is entirely to blame — he alone has 
broken her spirit. You look surprised. You admire him yourself 
too much to see clearly. 

Peter. I am surprised, Jane. I do admire John, but that does 
not prevent me from seeing very clearly — that he is everything he 
is reputed to be. Absolutely devoted to Edith. All the town 
knows — 

Jane. I've heard that tune before. All the town knows that 
they are ideally happy. Lord spare me such happiness!! 

Peter. You must admit he satisfies her every wish, her every 
whim. He gives her everything she wants — absolutely without fuss. 

Jane. There's the rub, Peter— WITHOUT FUSS. She needs 
that. It is absolutely essential to her. Strife is for her, as for me, 
the staff of life. 

Peter. But, Jane, nice people don't — 

Jane. I don't mean fight, Peter. I mean argue — though I'm 
not sure but that I'd prefer a husband who got drunk periodically 
and generously turned the house into a free-for-all. 

Peter. That's a nice sentiment for a nice girl to express. 

Jane. Well, Peter, can't you see that anything is preferable to 
having a husband who gives you everything you want, absolutely 
without fuss — who never fumes, never questions, never argues? 

[46] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Peter. Can't say that I do. It's curious to me that you free 
women, who won't brook interference, should turn about and cry 
because you can't have it. 

Jane. It's not having your own way that counts, Peter — it's 
getting it. 

Peter [/'/ dawns upon him] Oh. 

Jane. Oh, if John would only break out — once! But no — 
he's hopeless, Peter. Won't even argue with me! But I'll make 
him, I will 1 ! [She has an idea] Peter, suppose John knew all along 
what he was doing — and acted so from deliberate intent — to break 
Edith. What a diabolical scheme — and clever! 

Peter. Nonsense, Jane! This is going to your head. You 
talk like a dime novel. John's wild about Edith. It's not his fault 
that he's built so that he'd rather do anything than be involved 
in a fuss. He's always been that way. 

Jane. But sometimes he does it quite deliberately? 

Peter. Oh, if he sees you're trying to get a rise — of course. 
Do you blame him? He's not a fool. 

Jane. No. But Edith — 

Peter. Jane, we'll never finish this. Let's stop rowing over 
Edith and talk about us. 

Jane. But you won't admit — 

Peter [unwittingly falling into the Loring manner] I'll admit 
anything if — 

Jane. The shadow! John's voice! 

Peter. The Devil! I only wanted to change the subject, 
Jane. 

Jane. John is always changing the subject. 

Peter. But I wanted to ask you to marry me. 

Jane. Never! A Loring? With Edith before me? 

Peter. Damn Edith! 

Jane. Nothing doing! Damn John! You'll be taking lessons 
in wife taming from him. Our walls will vibrate to the tune of 
"Quite so. Let's talk about something else". 

Peter. Our walls won't vibrate to anything. I'm not asking 
you to live in a seaside bungalow. 

Jane. Suppose I want to live in a seaside bungalow? 

Peter. I won't let you. You'll get rheumatism. There, we've 

[47] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

found a bone of contention already. Jane, I'll right, I'll do anything — 

Jane. You'll promise anything now. 

Peter. I'm a man of my word. 

Jane [struggling to free herself] No man's word is worth a cent 
in a situation like this! Let me go! 

Peter. Jane, you will marry me. I'll be your sparring partner 
for life, if you'll have me. 

Jane. But I won't. You won't ever — 

Peter. What are we doing now? What have we ever done 
but quarrel and contradict each other, and argue and stew? The 
one thing we haven't done is throw dinner plates at each other. 

Jane. But that's just what I want — for the stew. Peter, 
let me go! Someone's coming. [There is a knock at the door. Peter 
has 'Jane's hand, and as she is taken of her guard by the sudden in- 
terruption he slips the ring on her finger.] 

Peter. Ah, c'est fait! Some job! Come in! [Jane sinks 
into a chair, speechless with rage, as Hope Loring comes in. She is 
about thirty-two, pretty in a pale sort of way, quietly dressed, deliberate 
in speech and manner.] 

Peter. Hello, Hope, congratulate us. 

Hope. Good afternoon. [Hope is not used to excitement, and 
does not know whether congratulations are in order or not.] Miss 
Bannon, am I to understand — - 

Jane. Nothing. Peter is quite mad. I have not the slightest 
intention of marrying him — yet. 

Hope. But you are wearing his ring. 

Peter. Aha! 

Jane. On probation. 

Hope. Oh. [A paused 

Jane. Won't you sit down? 

Hope. Thank you. Edith and I were going to a matinee this 
afternoon. I understood you were to be out, else I should have 
bought another ticket. 

Jane. That's very good of you. I am going out — or was — 
with Peter — if he hasn't forgotten. We're going — Peter, where are 
we going? [Not giving him time to reply to Hope] Peter lunched 
Greenwich Village this noon — and in his excitement forgot to j 
the tickets, probably. 

[48] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Peter. Wrong, this time. 

Hope. Greenwich Village! Peter, I do hope you're not allow- 
ing yourself to be fascinated by the false glamour of that place — to 
be dragged into drinking and gambling and all kinds of intrigues 
with those impossible people! [Jane laughs] 

Peter. Oh, I say, Hope, it's not so bad as that. 

Jane. No. I lived there for a year myself. 

Hope. Indeed! Did you like it? 

Jane. Very much. [Another awkward pause.] 

Peter [to change the subject] This is the vase, Hope. Don't 
you think it's a fair copy. John eventually got it. 

Hope [looking at it, hating it, and not knowing whether she ought 
to or not.] Peculiar thing, isn't it, Miss Bannon? I'm no judge of 
art, so — 

Jane. You're perfectly free to dislike it with all your heart 
and soul. We all do. It's quite dreadful. 

Hope [relieved] I did think so secretly. But how wonderful of 
John to have gone to all that trouble because Edith seemed to admire 
an ornament in a restaurant! Edith's is really one of those rare 
things — a marriage made in Heaven. 

Jane. Made in Heaven ! Made in H Germany, you mean ! 

Hope. Germany! I beg your pardon. 

Jane [to cover up the slip] Well, they were married there — or 
am I mistaken — Peter ? 

Peter. They were. 

Hope [again relieved] Oh. [A pause] 

Jane. Peter, you haven't told me yet what we are seeing this 
afternoon. 

Peter. You didn't give me a chance. New bill of one-act 
plays at the Garden. \H ope frowns] All new art stuff — crazy color 
schemes and things. 

Jane. Lovely! I've a mind to make John come along. 

Hope [positively] He won't. 

Peter. Not if he's in his right mind. We might chloroform 
him, though. 

Jane. That's a thought. He really ought to go once, you 
know — just to see what it has to say for itself. I'll talk to him. 

Hope. You'll have a time persuading him, Miss Bannon. 

[49] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

That's one thing John dislikes above all else. He really abhors it — 
Greenwich Village with its grotesque and unconventional color com- 
binations, impressionistic pictures, cubists — and all that sort of thing. 

Peter. I know. I took John to a Granville Barker production 
one time. Will I ever forget it — and that was good stuff too. 

Jane. Did he really break out? 

Hope. Break out? 

Jane. I know it sounds like the measles, Miss Loring. But 
Peter knows what I mean, [to Peter] He didn't really? 

Peter. No. He didn't say a word through it all. But a little 
later he took this place and it's his big argument against the new in 
decorations. Not bad at that. 

Hope. I think it's a beautiful apartment — excellent taste — 
quiet. 

Jane. Granted. Nobody questions the very marked good 
taste in which Edith's — or rather — John's home is planned. But 
this [with a wave of the hand] does not prove that the new methods 
are not beautiful, too. Of course they can be exaggerated. I have 
some perfectly wild pictures and posters in my trunk. They are 
awful — hideous monstrosities — no excuse for them at all. But the 
really artistic new things — have a charm and a freshness that one 
cannot fail to see. 

Hope. I'm afraid John would invariably "fail to see", Miss 
Bannon. Really it's quite a mania with him — this dislike. If you 
tried to put some of your "new" theories into practice here — [she 
ends with a shrug] 

Peter. There'd surely be a row. 

Jane [interested] A row? 

Hope. I'm afraid so. 

Jane [half to herself] A row — a row! Oh, if I only could! [A pause] 

Hope. By the way, where is Edith? We'd better be going. 

Jane [hastily] I'll find her for you. 

Hope. Oh, don't trouble, I'll go myself. [Exit Hope. Edith 
enters from other door.] 

Jane. Oh, Edith, there you are! Hope's here — looking for 
you — and bless her heart — she's shown a way ! An idea ! 

Peter. I say, Jane, what's the row? 

Jane. Never you mind, Peter. Wait. Edith, you must get 

[50] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

out of going to the theatre with Hope. Will you? Let John go 
instead. And, Peter, you go with them. IVe got a brilliant idea — 
and if this won't work, Edith, you're lost! Sh-sh! Here they are 
now. [Enter Hope, John following] 

Hope. Oh, there you are, Edith. 

John. Oh, there you are. Hope's been looking for you. 
Better be getting started. It's late. 

Edith. I'm awfully sorry, Hope, I can't go with you this after- 
noon. I feel so little like going out. Let John go in my place. 

John. Edith, you really should go out more. You're not look- 
ing very well. 

Jane. Nonsense. Edith feels as well as ever, but I've asked 
her to stay home with me. I'm not going with you either, Peter. 
Miss Loring, you don't mind. 

Hope [not very pleased] No, certainly. John, will you come? 

John. With pleasure, my dear. 

Peter. I'm dying of curiosity. What's the big idea? 

Jane. You'll know presently. Are you curious, Mr. Loring? 

John. Not particularly. I am interested of course, but I am 
quite willing to wait until you think it time to tell us. 

Jane. Doesn't it interest you when I say it has to do with new 
art? 

Hope [apprehensively] New art! 

John. New art doesn't interest me particularly. In fact I 
dislike the new methods very much. 

Jane. But why? 

John. Just so. [During this conversation and the speeches 
that follow ', Hope stands at the door, quite impatient to go. Edith listens 
attentively in the hope of catching a controversial note in Johns voice.] 

Jane. But your reasons? 

John. It's a question of taste, not for argument. I dislike 
very much having the new things around, but if people like that sort 
of thing and choose to call it Art, I am all for humoring them. 

Jane. Choose to call it Art ! But it is ! The burden of proof — 

John. As you please. It's a matter of taste as I said before. 
Hope, are you ready? 

Jane. But, Mr. Loring — 

John [pretending not to hear] We are going to be late, Hope. 

[50 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

You know how I — [They go. Jane tears about the room, furious.] 

Peter. Jane, why bump your head against a stone wall ? What 
is the big idea ? 

Jane. Sure, and it's your head I'll bump against a stone wall, 
Peter, if you don't get out this minute. Will you go? [She throws 
a cushion at him and shoos him out.] 

Edith [Looking "I told you so" in capital letters] If that was your 
"big idea", Jane — [Raising her hands in the French manner — a 
gesture of helplessness^] 

Jane. No, that wasn't my "big idea", Edith — and don't do 
that with your hands! [She almost shrieks this] That was only a 
starter. But I have found a way to make that man angry. Did 
you know that John hated the Village and its fads, its recherche for 
the bizarre and that stuff? 

Edith. Well, he wouldn't be likely to be very fond of it. No. 
But then I don't like it either. 

Jane. Never mind that. Hope and Peter warned me that if 
I tried to bring the Village into the Loring scheme of things, there'd 
surely be a row. Well, Edith, I'm banking on that row. [Peter 
comes in and listens^] 

Edith. You won't get it, darling. 

Jane. Killjoy. I forbid you, Edith, to throw cold water on 
my quickened hopes. [Sees Peter] Why aren't you with Hope and 
John? 

Peter. Didn't want to go with them. I came back to make 
you keep your date with me or tell me why you broke it. What's 
the big idea? 

Jane. Peter, if you expect to marry me, you must try to vary 
your phrases a bit. The Big Idea is this: Edith is dying a horrible 
death, dying for a fight. I'm going to see that she gets it. 

Peter. Well — 

Jane. Well, John hates the Village. Therefore I am going to 
turn this model of conventional taste into a Greenwich Village crazy 
house — put in stuff that no self-respecting Villager would stand for. 
This is going to be MacDougal Alley as one would see it in a back- 
woods realistic stage production. That's the Big Idea — got it now? 

Peter. Yes, but — 

Jane. Now that you're here you can help distribute — at- 

[52] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

mosphere. Run out and get me about nine dozen packages of 
Deities — but no — they can't afford Deities down there — Camels, 
Jack Rose, Lucky Strike — you know, something vile. Don't stand 
gaping! Run! [Exit Peter] Edith have you any colored silks about 
anywhere — cerises and things — gaudy linings — any color — any size? 
I've got a trunkful of junk upstairs — incense, prints — everything. 
[During this speech, Jane runs about the room, picking up and dropping 
this and that; Edith follows, picking up the debris. During the whole 
scene there is much running about and confusion. Nobody stands still a 
minute.] You get the silks and I'll get my stuff. [On her way out, 
Jane deliberately tears down the portieres. Edith picks up the torn 
curtains ruefully — they really are pretty. She sighs, folds them up and 
goes out. Reenter fane, her arms full of cushions {brilliant yellows and 
oranges), pictures, posters, magazines (like Bruno's Weekly, etc.) 
An orange tie hangs from her shoulder. There is a cigarette between 
her teeth.] 

Edith [coming back with some colored silks] Those prints — you're 
not going to use those awful things! 

Jane. Indeed I am, Edith. [She holds them up. The one on 
top is a " Spanish Dancing girl" with green complexion and yellow 
hair. Her feet, crossed below and extending marvelously above her 
head, where they cross again, enclose the head as in a frame \ I have 
some posters too. They're worse. 

Edith. Oh, my poor head! [They work about the room, covering 
the old cushions with the silks. They don't sew things — only pin and 
tuck them in. There are all the colors in the spectrum so arranged that 
the pinks are next the reds, etc. fane is on top of a chair hanging some 
wildly colored silk for curtains when Peter comes in.] 

Jane. Oh, there you are, Peter. Put that stuff down on the 
table — or on the floor if there's no room. Have you a sport shirt 
laid away in camphor somewhere? 

Peter [Laying the cigarettes on the table] U-huh! 

Jane. And a velvet smoking jacket? 

Peter. U-huh! 

Jane. And white trousers? Run along — I'll finish you when 

you come down. 

Peter. Do you mean you want me to put them on — now? 

[ 53 1 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Jane. No, darling, how could you think such a thing! I 
want them to decorate the chandelier. 

Peter. Aw, hey! 

Jane. Don't argue now, Peter. Obey orders. 

Peter. Whew! [Exit Peter. The sewing and ripping goes on.] 

Jane. If this doesn't get him, nothing will. You know if I 
came home and saw my house turned topsy turvey like this, I'd be 
ready for murder — and / like this stuff. 

Edith. This? 

Jane. Properly done, yes. It's really pretty. Ever see Gran- 
ville Barker's production of "The Man Who Married a Dumb 
Wife"? Wasn't it lovely? 

Edith. Yes, that was. But this — . Jane, I'm getting seasick. 
[This as Jane spreads an old red kitchen tablecloth on the sofa and then 
puts some burnt orange cushions on top.] Do we have to put things 
together quite like this? 

Jane. We must. Here's hoping it gives John — convulsions. 
How I'd hate to be a chameleon in a room like this! [Edith laughs] 
Don't laugh! That's not my idea. It's Oliver Herford's. Only 
he was worried about a Scotch plaid. Let's set the stage. [She 
puts the papers about; starts the incense.] 

Edith. Why start the incense now? They won't be home for 
three hours. 

Jane. It will be all through the house by then. That's what 
we want. Add a little cheap cigarette smoke and there won't be a 
healthy corner in the place. That reminds me — You don't smoke, 
do you? 

Edith. No, I hate it. 

Jane. Well, you've got to — to complete the picture. Better 
not try on one of those cheap things, though. They'll kill you. 
Here are some of my own — Deities — they're very good. [Edkh 
tries; coughs. Jane watches.] 

Edith. Horrible things — I shall be violently ill. 

Jane. All for a good cause, Edith. Cheer up — but don't 
swallow all the smoke. [Enter Peter, in sport shirt open at the neck, 
velvet smoking jacket, white trousers.] 

Peter. I feel like a fool. 

Jane. You look like one. 

[54] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Edith. [laughing] I'll say so! Oh, Peter! 

Jane. But you fit in all the more easily with the surroundings. 
You supply three-quarters of the atmosphere. All you need now is 
a sunflower. Here, little sunshine, let me ruffle your hair a bit. 

Peter. Jane, this is going the limit. 

Jane. And the tie. The tie! [Picking up the orange tie from 
the mess of junk on the floor.] 

Peter. I will not wear that gaudy thing. 

Jane. You will — or — [Movement as if to take off her ring.] 

Peter. Oh, all right. But play fair. Don't go flashing that 
stone in my face. [Jane puts on the brilliant orange tie and pencils 
dark circles under Peter s eyes. He now looks completely like a fool. 
Edith has a terrible fit of coughing. Peter runs to her.] 

Peter. Poor Edith! Don't like 'em? 

Edith. No. 

Jane. Oh, I forgot! 

Peter. Good Lord! What next? 

Jane. Here, Peter, hang these things, will you? [Exit. Peter 
goes to hang the prints and posters; falls back reeling^ 

Edith [Going to the table drawer and taking out sunglasses. ]_Here, 
Peter, these will help. 

Peter [Putting them on] Ah better! [He hangs posters] Where is 
all this leading to ? Matteawan ? [He gets up on a chair to hang the 
posters. Edith holds it steady for him.] 

Edith. Jane thinks it will make John angry. Oh, if it only 
would ! 

Peter. Gosh, it ought to! 

Edith [ecstatically clasping her hands and forgetting all about 
Peter] He might even throw a chair. Peter, tell me, will John throw 
a chair? 

Peter [reeling] Here, hold on to this, it's going over. I hate to 
discourage you — 

Edith. Or a vase, maybe — [She clasps her hands again. Peter 
is again about to fall \ 

Peter. Say! Til throw something in a minute. 

Edith. Sorry! [again in reverie] Yes, it will be a vase — the 
Chinese vase! Oh, I can't wait until he comes home! [Reenter 

[55] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Jane, in a lavender smock, red skirt, sandals, lavender stockings. An- 
other smock on her arm.] 

Jane. Here's one for you, Edith, [throwing the smock at her.] 
Throw it over your dress. That's it. 

Peter. Where'd you get all this stuff, Jane ? 

Jane. You forget, Peter. I lived in the Village a year. I 
collected and kept all the curios, the wildest of them. Sandals, 
Edith? They're the thing — for February. [Edith puts them on. 
Jane stands still for a moment.] Now let's drape ourselves languor- 
ously about the room — and look wicked. Peter, look evanouissant, 
wan. I'll look defiant, [with a stamp of the foot] Bolshevik, that's 
me. Demi-mondaine, Edith, that's you — bored with life, blase. 
You've tasted of all life's pleasures. Peter, you're a poet — a sweet 
poet, read only in lavender boudoirs to the accompaniment of the 
harp. Try to look it. Horrors! You look like a Wall Street ticker! 
Please try to look poetic! [They drape themselves about the room. 
Jane looks around with satisfaction; then jumps up suddenly.] But, 
Edith, your hair — It must be bobbed. Let me try to fix it so it 
will look bobbed. [She takes down Edith's hair which is very beautiful. 
Peter watches, admiringly. Jane tries to fix it so it will look bobbed, 
but she cant — there is too much of it.] What shall we do? It can't 
be done. I'm afraid it's got to come off. 

Peter. WHAT!! 

Jane [calmly] All for the cause. 

Peter. Damn your cause. It's just your natural love for 
destruction. 

Edith [ruefully] Must it really come off, Jane? 

Jane. All for the cause. [She takes the scissors from the table.] 
You'll really like it better. Cooler in summer — no bother to fix it. 

Peter. Cut that! 

Jane. Just what I am about to do. 

Peter. I mean — . Jane, I positively forbid you to touch 
Edith's hair. It's too pretty to be thrown away like that. 

Jane. It'll fall out some day anyhow. 

Peter. Jane, I'm beginning to think you are quite mad. To 
do such a thing — for a lark! 

Jane. Who said this was a lark? We're engaged in the serious 
business of planting seeds of discord in this too harmonious house- 

[56] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

hold. We're going to make a man of iron — or wood — as you please — 
lose his temper. 

PfcTER [stubbornly] If you cut Edith's hair, I'll refuse to play. 
And I'm rather a necessary decoration for this den of vice — me and 
my orange tie! I'll bust the whole show. 

Jane. Oh, all right. But I hate to do things by halves. 

Peter. Halves!'. 

Jane. How can I fix it? Oh, I know. I once saw an awful 
idiot in the mad hatter. She was sitting on an ice-box and talking 
for my benefit. [Jane takes Edith's hair, parts it in the middle from 
forehead to neck; then plasters it down on both sides; makes tiny braids, 
and winds them about each ear. While she does this, she talks very 
quickly — as follows] I don't say that all the Village is like this, but 
some of the people there are the most hopeless idiots. I worked with 
a girl one summer who ran a cooperative Socialist boarding house. 
Yes, Peter, all of that. She used to talk all the time. She had a 
funny habit of talking with her mouth closed, very indistinctly, 
so I got the things she told me a bit mixed. She used to rave about 
a French inventor who helped her to run the house, and a few of the 
other inmates. They would steal each other's cigarettes and extra 
collar. I never could make out whether there were any doors in the 
place — everybody seemed to be in everybody else's room all the time, 
particularly Robert — that's the French inventor. They were always 
broke, but she used to earn enough to take Robert to the theatre. 
What's the matter, Peter? [The coiffure is almost completed^ 

Peter. Ugh! 

Edith [looking in the mirror] Don't tell me they wear their hair 
like this. 

Jane. Oh, yes, very chic — very much Village. 

Edith. I never hated the place so much as I do now. I want 
never to hear of it again. 

Peter. Well, I must say, Jane, / didn't see anything like this. 

Jane. / did, occasionally. Of course, this [indicating the room] 
is burlesque. I was afraid if I made it really artistic, John might 
like it in spite of himself. And I'm not trying to convert him to 
new art — Tm trying to get a rise. 

Peter. With an ordinary man, you'd get not a rise, but an 
earthquake. 

[57] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Jane. Well, we'll see how near to the rest of us your anomalous 
John really is. What's that? {sound oj footsteps in the hall] They're 
coming back ! What could have brought them back so soon ? Come, 
Edith, let's get out. Let them get one thing at a time. Peter, 
shoot! [The stage is cleared. Enter John with Hope leaning rather 
heavily upon his arm.] 

Hope. I thought I'd die in that car. I felt so faint! And I 
spoiled your afternoon, John. 

John. No, not at all. Are you sure you feel better? [Hope 

sees the room. Her eyes dilate. She is speechless. Peter comes in.] 

Hope [pointing to Peter, with a shriek] Peter!!! John, he's lost 

his mind! Or have I? John! Oh, it's that dreadful Bannon creature. 

I never trusted her. Look at this room! [John has been looking; 

frowns; says nothing.] John, are you going to permit this outrage? 

John — your lovely sitting room— Oh, I'm dizzy! I'm going to faint. 

[Peter looks sheepish. John stares at him. Hope's faint affords relief.] 

Peter. She's fainting. Hey, Edith, Jane! [They come in, 

slouching, in the approved abandoned manner. Their eyebrows are 

penciled jet black, going upward like Chinamen s. Their lips and 

cheeks are painted. Edith is trying to smoke without choking. John 

just looks at them as they parade about.] 

John. Are you — rehearsing — for a play? 

Peter. No. Jane's just trying to put some of her ideas into 
actual practice, so she can convert you — to the new manner. 

John — And you, Edith — you like this? I thought you hated — 
Edith [ecstatically] Oh, yes, John, I did — but now — [she chokes] 
Don't you? I just love it! It's so original! And I'm going to fix 
my hair like this always. [Peter winces; John, too, a little] And I 
love the way Jane has fixed over this room, don't you? [pleadingly] 
Don't you? [She stares at him hopefully. His hand reaches out 
towards the Chinese vase, as if to throw it. Edith is about to cry for 
joy. A queer expression comes over John s face. He sees they want 
a rise — and they won t get it. He controls himself, and says, apparently 
without effort — ] 

John. Of course, Edith, if you like this sort of thing — sorry 
I didn't discover it before, — you can have it. Every man to his 
taste, you know. Not for me to interfere — too much trouble — never 
get anything that way — [Exit mumbling in the familiar fashion.] 

1 58] 



MADE IN HEAVEN 

Edith [with a cry of anguish] Oh, my God!!!!! [She faints upon 
the couch. Jane stares straight ahead of her, stupefied. Peter looks 
apologetic. Jane comes to with a shudder. Sees Peter; tears off her 
ring and throws it at him over her shoulder. She runs to Edith.] 



CURTAIN 



[59] 



SPINELESS 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

ELSIE GARRETSON FINCH 



CHARACTERS 

Laura 
Stuart 
The Stranger 



SPINELESS 



Scene: A large living and dining room in a house out quite jar 
in the country. At the back are the door from the outside and two win- 
dows — to the lejt an open fireplace, the closet and a wood box occupy 
the whole wall. There is a door to the right, near which is a table partly 
set for supper. 

It is a stormy evening about seven o'clock. 

[Laura moves about the table. Footsteps are heard on the porch 
and Stuart enters, carrying a small brown bag.} 

Laura. You're very late. 

Stuart. Laura, are you alone? 

Laura. Of course. Why, what's the matter? 

Stuart. Laura, look. 

[He puts the bag on the table and opens it.} 

Ten thousand — cash! 
Laura. You stole that from the bank? 

Stuart. The vault was closed and everyone had gone. 

I had to bring it home. What could I do? [whining] 

Tell Mr. Patterson that it was late 

And have them fire me? 
Laura. No, of course. And yet 

I wish you hadn't had to do it, Stuart, 

I don't like all that money in the house. 

It makes me nervous — when it isn't ours. 
Stuart. Is supper nearly ready? I'm half starved. 
Laura. Oh, supper. Yes. I'll get it. Just sit down. 

[Indifferently.] 
[She goes out. He looks around the room, then steals over to the 
woodbox and puts the brown bag in it. Laura returns^ 
Laura. Why, where's the bag? 

Stuart. I put it where it's safe. 

I guess it made me kind of nervous, too. 

[6 5 ] 



SPINELESS 



Laura. 

Laura. 

Stuart. 

Laura. 



Stuart. 
Laura. 



Stuart. 
Laura. 



Stuart. 



Laura. 

Stuart. 

Laura. 

Stuart. 

Laura. 



Stuart. 



Laura. 



Yes, that's a good idea. . . .Well, here's your food. 
[They sit down and start to eat.] 
What were you doing? Working late again? 
Yes. Some reports. 

I tell you you're a fool. 
They work you more than all the rest together, 
And what's the good? You haven't had a raise 
For nearly seven years. 

What can I do? 
They'll fire me if I kick — 

You couldn't kick, 
You haven't got the gumption of a fly. 
Don't guess you ever will have. — Here's your coffee. 
It's a good job and I don't want to lose it. 
[laughs unpleasantly] A good job! Yes. And when I 

married you, 
Over eight years ago, I was ambitious — 
I dreamed big dreams for you — you had a future. 
Where are you now? Well you're a bank clerk still — 
You haven't even ever had a past! 
Oh, I can't tolerate a spineless man! 
It's not my fault — I never had a chance — 
Besides, I'm tired — It's really not my fault — 
[His voice trails away, they eat in silence.] 
Today's the first of February, Stuart. 
The first of February? Oh yes — bills — 
Yes, lots of them. Here, have some more potato — 
A spineless vegetable — that's why you like it. 
Oh well, they've got to wait. Next month, perhaps — 
You always say next month — it never comes. 
I think that I could almost stand you, Stuart, 
If you'd do something well, and do it now. 
I'm going to pay them, Laura. What's the use 
Of worrying and fussing over bills. 
I'm tired — 

If you did worry, now and then, 
They might get paid. Perhaps you might do something 
Although I doubt it. 

[66] 



SPINELESS 



Stuart. Oh, let me alone! 

I'll pay them someday, when I get the money. 

Laura. You 11 never pay them, you'll just let them go — 

Til be the one who works my fingers off 
To make one nickel do the work of ten — 
Til pay them someday. God, you ought to bless 
The day you married me, and I should curse it! 
I've slaved and skimped and saved for eight long years, 
So that you wouldn't worry over bills — 

Stuart. Oh, don't — I'm tired. 

Laura. That's what you always say, 

You're always tired. I've never seen you yet 
Too tired to whine; you're able to complain. 
I wish you'd just pretend you were a man 
And chuck this rotten job, go someplace else 
Where they don't know that you're a spineless worm, 
I'd almost like to see you start again. 
[She walks about. Suddenly] 
How much is in that bag? 

Stuart. [starts] Ten thousand dollars. 

Laura. Ten thousand dollars — in that little bag — 

And we could start again with half of that. 
You say that everyone had left the bank? 
You were alone? [He nods.] They know that fools 

are honest, 
Oh well, ten thousand is an awful lot 
When you're as poor as we are. 
[She goes out carrying dishes and brings in a plate.] 

Here's your mush, 
I don't see how you eat the squashy mess. 
[She goes over to the window and stands looking out.] 
My, what a dreadful night! I almost think 
I'd like to be outdoors. I want to fight — 
Even a snow storm. 

Stuart. [shivers] No — it's bitter cold. 

I couldn't see my hand before my face 
When I came in. I hate a freezing dark. 

Laura. [turns fiercely] It makes me sick to have to look at you. 

[6 7 ] 



SPINELESS 



You're neither good nor bad — in fact, I think 
That I'd respect you more if you were bad. 
You're simply nondescript — 

Stuart. Oh Laura, stop — 

For God's sake, I can't stand it! 

Laura. Yes, you're tired, 

You little worm — you call yourself a man — 
You — small, weak, sickly, insignificant — 
To think that I was blind enough to love 
A creature such as you! I loved you once 
Nearly a year! Then suddenly I found 
That we agreed because you had no nerve — 
Because you didn't dare to go against me. 
I loathed you then — and yet I loath you now 
Ten thousand times more fiercely! Now it seems 
As if I'd do most anything to feel 
That I would never see your face again, 
It sickens me. 

Stuart. I guess I'll go upstairs. 

[He rises timidly from the table and goes to the door, right. She 

lets him open the door and nearly get away.] 

Laura. Stuart, come back. 

[He turns hesitatingly] Come back in here. 

[Obediently he turns and comes towards her.] Sit down. 

[She points to a chair. He sits in it.] 

You didn't think I'd let you get away 

So easily as that? I'm not half through — 

I've got the hate I've hidden seven years 

To show to you tonight. You thought I liked 

The drab, uninteresting life I led. 

You thought I didn't mind the lonely days, 

The everlasting saving. And perhaps 

You thought that I looked forward to the time 

When you came home — you with your endless whine 

About the way they worked you at the bank, 

About the way they put the others up 

Over your head. Perhaps you may have thought 

I didn't know you were a rotten failure. 

[68] 



SPINELESS 



Perhaps you fooled yourself that I believed 
They were unfair. But all that time I knew 
That it was you. I saw they hated you, 
Despised and loathed you, as I did myself. 

Stuart. Laura, you've got to let me go upstairs. 

Laura. Stay where you are. 

Stuart. For God's sake, let me go. 

Laura. All right I'll go wherever else you go, 

Unless you go out there. [Points to front door.] 

Stuart. [shivers] Oh no, not there — 

I hate the cold. 
Laura. Then stay and hear the rest. 

I've lots to say. I haven't started yet 

To curse you for the way you spoiled my life, 

The way you lied to me — the things you said 

About your brilliant future. 
Stuart. Let me go — 

Be decent, Laura, let me go alone. 
Laura [indifferently] I wouldn't want to go outside a night 

Like this. It's very cold — 

Stuart. And dark and lonely. 

Laura. Listen then. I've told you how I feel, 

How everybody feels — that you're no good. 
I've seen it in their eyes — I've heard them talk 
Behind my back. It made them pity me — 
And pity's the one thing I will not stand! 
[He rises.] Stay where you are. 

Stuart. Laura, I'm going out. 

Laura. You? On a night like this? Impossible! 

Stuart. Perhaps it is. I'm going just the same. 

[Moves towards the wood box.] 
Laura. Put on your coat — No, stand there where you are — 

I'll get it for you. 
[She goes into the closet, brings out the coat and hat, keeping a care- 
ful watch on him all the time. She helps him on with the coat and feels 
in the pockets for the bag.] 

I expect you'll freeze. 

[6 9 ] 



SPINELESS 



Stuart 

Laura. 

Stuart. 

Laura. 



Voice. 

Laura. 



Voice. 

Laura. 

Voice. 

Laura. 



[under his breath] You mean you hope I will — perhaps 

I shall. 
[hesitates] You'd better not let anybody in. 
I don't think anybody's fool enough 
To be outdoors on such a rotten night. 
[lingers at the door] You won't be frightened all alone 

here, Laura? 
Because you are away? I'd flatter you 
If I were frightened — never fear, my dear. 
Besides, I have the gun you used to use 
To shoot at rabbits — though you never hit 'em. 
It's still in there — [points to kitchen] Well, hurry, if 

you're going. 
[He leaves. She stands looking after him with a look of 

contempt.] 
Poor little fool! 

[She looks around; runs her hands behind the books in the 
bookcases, searches in the closet, and finally opens the 
woodbox.] 

Aha! 
[She takes the bag over to the table and, carelessly pushing 
the dishes to one side, dumps out its contents. She counts 
the banknotes, one by one.] 

Ten thousand dollars! 
She puts them back again and leaving the bag on the 
table goes out to the right. A tap is heard on the window 
and a face peers through. Laura comes in with a suit- 
case which she puts on a chair and opens. It is half full 
of clothes, hastily thrown in. The tap is repeated, she 
turns and sees the face.] 
Please Lady, let me in. 

I can't. Go 'way. 
[The rapping continues. She goes over to the door and 
opens it a crack.] 

For God's sake, let me in. I'm starved and cold. 
You've got to go away. You can't come in. 
Lady, don't send away a freezing man. 
[shortly] Oh well, come in. 

[70] 



SPINELESS 



Stranger, 



Laura. 



Stranger. 

Laura. 

Stranger. 

Laura. 
Stranger. 



Laura. 
Stranger. 

Laura. 



Stranger. 



[He comes in, a small man, dressed inadequately for the 
cold weather. He goes to the fire and holds out blue hands,] 

It's bitter cold tonight. 
I couldn't drag myself another mile 
Against the fury of the snow and wind. 
And so I had to try. 

All right. Sit down. 
[He sits as near the fire as he can get. She continues 
with her packing.] 
Lady, you're going away? 

Yes. 

Not to-night? 
Not in the blizzard? 

Yes. 

It knocked me down. 
I felt half smothered with the snow and wind; 
While here it's warm and I can hear it howl 
And know it's far away, [sniffs] I'm hungry, Ma'am. 
[He moves towards the table. She sees his motion in the 
direction of the bag, picks it up and stuffs it into the 
suitcase.] 
Stay where you are. 

I want a bite of food, 
I'm very hungry, Ma'am. 

Oh, help yourself. 
[He goes over and eats what is left on the table. He talks 
disjointedly while she walks back and forth, occasionally 
going into the kitchen, completing her packing.] 
Work's hard to get. I walked ten miles or more 
Before the blizzard stopped me. They won't take 
A man who's been in jail. From house to house 
Without a bite of food. I'm getting old. 
[Grows excited.] I didn't do it — No, I didn't kill him — 
I felt my fingers tight about his throat — 
I had to squeeze — and then the more I did 
The easier it got, for he grew limp — 
Then suddenly I drew my hands away 
And he just lay there, with his ugly face 

[71] 



SPINELESS 



Laura. 
Stranger. 

Laura. 
Stranger. 
Laura. 
Stranger. 

Laura. 



Stranger. 
Laura. 



Stranger. 
Laura. 



Thief. 
Stranger. 

Laura. 



Turned to me grinning. [Pulls himself together.] No, 

I didn't kill him. 
[vaguely] All long ago, all very long ago. 
[shivers] It's cold outdoors — I've walked for miles and 

miles. 
[Comes to himself.] This is a pleasant house — it's warm 

and tight. 
You don't live all alone here, do you, Lady? 
Just for the present, while my husband's out. 
You're not afraid of robbers? In the night 
They come to lonely houses. 
[indifferently] They'd find nothing. 

[rising] Thank you for all your kindness to me, Lady. 
You're finished? Well, you'll have to go away. 
You wouldn't send a poor man back again 
Into the numbing storm. 

You can't stay here — 
But go into the kitchen if you like, 
It's warm enough in there. 

Yes. Thank you, Ma'am. 
Here, come this way. 

[She shows him out the door to the right. Then returns 
and takes her hat and coat from the closet. While her 
back is turned the door opens and a man enters. His 
face is covered with a handkerchief and he wears a long 
coat. He goes over to the wood box and kneels beside it. 
She turns suddenly and seeing him, screams.] 

Help! Robbers! Help! Police! 
[from kitchen] What's happened, Lady? 

What a fool I was! 
You're his accomplice. Don't you dare come in! 
[Runs across to the door into the kitchen.] 
[turns from wood box] Where's the money ? 
[bangs at door] Let me help 

you, Ma'am. 
No, no, I shall not let you! 

[She tries to keep him from entering, but he breaks past 
her, carrying a rifle. The thief rushes forward but the 

[72] 



SPINELESS 



Stranger. 
Laura. 

Stranger. 
Laura. 
Stranger. 
Laura. 



Stranger. 
Laura. 



Stranger. 
Laura. 



stranger shoots and the thief jails. A moment's silence \ 

Did you kill him? 
[hesitatingly] I — I don't know — I'll see. 
[goes over and kneels by thief s side.] He's dead. 
[Removes handkerchief.] Oh, Stuart! 
You knew him, Lady? 

Yes, he was my husband. 
God help me! 

Think of Stuart having nerve 
Enough to rob himself! He really did it! 
[Breaks into hysterical laughter.] 
Please Ma'am, I didn't know it. 

I respect him! 
I never did before. He was a man 
In spite of everything! I made him do it! 
What will you do about it? 
[fiercely] Do? I'll tell you — 

I'm going to publish it in every street. 
I'm going to say my husband robbed himself. 
I'll show them. He was not the lukewarm fool 
That everybody thought him. And I'll say — 
And if you dare deny it I shall kill you — 
That it was / who shot him here to-night — 
It's what I've longed to do for seven years! 



CURTAIN 



[73] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

MARY VAUX WHITFORD 



CHARACTERS 

Grandmother 

Mrs. Alexander, her daughter 

Peggy, her granddaughter 

Tommy, her grandson 

Dick 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Scene: A well furnished room with wide doors at the back onto 
a terrace and garden. Grandmother ', spry and sprightly , but dressed 
in an absurdly aged fashion , sits in a soft chair. Peggy, her grand- 
daughter, stands near. 

Time: Late Afternoon. 

Grandmother. Peggy dear, will you please open the door on 
the terrace? 

Peggy. Won't there be a draft on you, Granny? 

Grand. Now, Peggy dear, I may be on my last legs but it will 
take more than a draft to blow them from under me. [Peggy opens 
the glass door at center back. She stands in the doorway and looks out.] 

Peggy. I'm so glad it's clear. Won't the gardens be lovely 
with all the Japanese lanterns! But I do wish there were going to 
be a moon. 

Grand. That just shows your inexperience, Peggy. The tight 
of Japanese lanterns is much more becoming than mere moonlight. 
And so encouraging! I am not theorizing. / speak from experience. 

Peggy. Well, you had enough to know, — experience, proposals, 
lovers, by the dozens, didn't you, Gran? 

Grand, [much pleased] Oh, you silly child; — but the ingenue 
always does you know, especially proposals. I couldn't help it. 

Peggy. Did you want to? 

Grand, [she looks around and then in a dramatic stage whisper] 
No, — but that's a secret between the two of us. I tried to make 
your mother think I did. 

Peggy. You must miss it all terribly. 

Grand. The proposals weren't coming quite so spontaneously 
in the last five years, and I do like spontaneity. 

Peggy. But all the excitement and applause, and the orchids — 

Grand. Well there are compensations even for orchids. Here 
I always have my eggs to suit me. 

Peggy. Don't you really miss it, Gran? 

[79] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Grand. What makes you ask that, Peggy? Have I been a 
complaining, whining, I'm-on-the-shelf-and-I-want- to-get-down kind 
of a person ? 

Peggy. No, Granny, how absurd! But I always thought — 
once an actress, always an actress — in spirit at least. 

Grand. You're quite a discerning young person. How would 
you like to share another secret with me, a serious one this time? 

Peggy. I'd love to, Gran, even a serious one. 

Grand. Then come here and cross your heart and hope to die 
and mind you don't tell a soul, especially your mother. [Peggy comes 
over and sits on a stool at Grandmother s feet.] 

Peggy. I cross my heart and hope to die and mind I don't 
tell any one, especially Mother. 

Grand, [lightly] Now I'm safe. I can tell you even the worst. 
[pauses a minute — wistfully] You're all dear to me, Peggy, and it 
isn't that I prefer orchids to your larkspurs, nor proposals to Jimmy's 
chatter, but sometimes when I think of the applause and the audience, 
I . . . . [her voice trails off and she sits staring dreamily ahead] 

Peggy [stroking her hand] Poor Gran, your audience is rather 
limited here. Mrs. Brown and the eternal infant with the ever 
sprouting new tooth and Mrs. Carter with her forty-seven varieties 
of knitting. 

Grand. You were right — once an actress, always an actress; 
and once an ingenue, always an ingenue, in spirit at least; and a shawl 
and spectacles are so confining to the ingenue spirit! 

Peggy. But, Gran, if you didn't have something to restrain 
your ingenue spirit, I'd have no one to dance with. 

Grand, [very much pleased, but trying not to show it] Don't be 
foolish, [anxiously] You don't think I'm complaining, do you? 
I'm just stating facts. 

Peggy. I understand, darling. 

Grand. That's a good child, [sighs] When I think of it all, the 
frilly frocks, the coquettish curls, and the curtain calls. It's all a 
part of me, Peggy, and not even black taffeta hideosities and old age 
can completely discourage it. How I should like one more frivolous 
frock to wear, one more part to play, my final fling. 

Peggy. Poor dear. 

Grand. Poor dear nothing — silly old fool. Come, let's talk 

[80] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

about the dance. It's to be a fancy dress affair, isn't it? Pierrettes, 
Pierrots, Quaker Maids and all that sort of thing. 

Peggy. Yes. 

Grand. Humm — rather in my line — Not the Quaker maid of 
course How I should love to be going in costume. 

Peggy. Why don't you? 

Grand. What an idea! Imagine your Mother's face if I 
suggested it. 

Peggy. She'd disapprove at first, of course, because she thinks 
costumes are silly even for young people, but why don't you try it? 

Grand, [after a deliberate pause] No, no I couldn't. You see 
I've always stood in awe of your Mother. She was undoubtedly 
cast for the part of the strong minded heroine — and I am only the 
ingenue — I never dared to dispute with her. Even when she was a 
small baby and could only say ma, ma and da, da, — she was so force- 
ful. 

Peggy. But Gran, she could only disapprove. 

Grand. And I don't thrive on disapproval, especially your 
mother's. Besides if I suggested it, she might guess "our secret". 
No, I couldn't. 

Peggy. But I can and I will. 

Grand. Do you mean it, Peggy? Think of not wearing black 
taffeta for just one evening, [she rises and pirouettes around] My 
final fling! What a lark! [anxiously, returning to her seat] Do you 
think I'm a silly old fool? 

Peggy. I think you're a ducky old dear; but here comes 
Mother. [Grandmother reseats herself. Enter Mrs. Alexander. She 
carries a fancy dress costume over one arm, she also has slippers and 
"make-up" materials.] 

Mrs. A. Here are the things you wanted, Peggy. I hope they 
will do. [She holds up the costume. It is of colonial type.] 

Peggy. Why, Katharine will be a love in that. 

Grand. Who is Katharine? 

Mrs. A. Katharine Major, a friend of Peggy's. I've never 
met her, but Peggy vouches for her respectability so we've asked her 
to the dance and promised to get her a costume. 

Peggy [putting on her best ingratiating manner] Mums, while 

[81] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

we're talking about costumes, don't you think it would be fun if 
Gran went in costume? 

Mrs. A. Peggy, what an absurd idea! 

Peggy. Oh, not so absurd, Mother. Why when Gran was on 
the stage — 

Mrs. A. But she isn't on the stage now, thank heavens! 

Grand, [timidly] I think, Margaret, it would be quite amusing. 

Mrs. A. It certainly would, for the whole town. Can't you 
hear Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Carter talking it over? 

Peggy. Oh, let them talk, who cares what they say? 

Mrs. A. Peggy! 

Peggy [defiantly] I think it would be a lark. 

Mrs. A. I think it would be a most undignified proceeding. 

Peggy. But, Mother. 

Mrs. A. That will do, Peggy. [Peggy subsides.] We haven't 
time to argue the question any longer. Besides I have no idea that 
your Grandmother really wants to do it. It's just some silly whim 
of yours. I know only too well how glad Mother is to leave that 
old life behind her. Aren't you dear? 

Grand, [hastily] Certainly, but I thought it would be rather 
nice to have a little reminder — 

Mrs. A. [suspiciously] Aren't you happy here? 

Peggy, [unable to restrain herself any longer] How can she be — 

Grand, [giving her a warning glance and saying softly "Peggy." 
Peggy again subsides] As Peggy was about to say, how can I be any- 
thing else, — but I thought perhaps this once. . . . 

Mrs. A. Oh, no dear. I shouldn't like to see my mother make 
a spectacle of herself and you'll really be much more at home in the 
black taffeta. 

Grand, [with forced lightness] Perhaps you're right, dear, you 
always are about most things. 

Mrs. A. I knew you'd think so in the end. Now, Peggy, about 
those decorations — 

Peggy. Oh, yes, we must get that settled right away. [There 
is a whoop outside.] 

Peggy. Jimmy ! Wouldn't you know he'd turn up at the wrong 
time. Why couldn't you make him stay away at least until the dance 
had begun, Mums? 

[82] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Mrs. A. Now, Peggy, that's ridiculous. 

Peggy. I bet he upsets something or everything. Come on, 
we've got to talk about those decorations. [Enter Jimmy. He is 
about fourteen and wears a baseball suit. Peggy ignores him pointedly 
and talks to her mother.] 

Jimmy. Well, Tm ready for the party. Let's begin! 

Peggy [unable to ignore him any longer] Anyone would think it 
was your party. 

Jimmy. Sure it's as much mine as yours. That is, the food is. 
You can have the rest. 

Peggy [sarcastically] Thanks. And by the way Jimmy, what 
did you do with my pendant? 

Jimmy. What would I do with your pendant? Nothin'. I 
haven't had it. 

Peggy. Why, James Alexander, you took it this morning! 
You thought you could tease me. 

Jimmy. I did not. 

Peggy. You did, too. 

Jimmy. That's right. Blame me for everything. 

Mrs. A. Now, children, this is absurd and unnecessary. The 
pendant is probably on your dressing table, Peggy, and we must 
talk about those decorations. [They move to sit down on the sofa.] 
Jimmy, you can go and ask Sarah to give you a cookie. 

Jimmy. Some cookies, Mums. 

Mrs. A. One cookie, Jimmy. 
Jimmy. Three, Mums. 

Mrs. A. Well, two. [As Jimmy starts to go out] Don't go near 
the drawing room, Jimmy! [Exit Jimmy.] 

Grand. Don't you think, Margaret, that perhaps you give 
in to Jimmy a little too easily ? 

Mrs. A. Not at all, Mother. — Now, Peggy, we can discuss 
those decorations. Come, let's sit down. [They sit on the sofa. 
There is a clatter and a whoop off stage. Jimmy yells "Oh, say, Mums, 
come here quick! Somethings upset. I guess it's the whole drawing 
room!**] 

Peggy [tragically] What did I say? Now the party's all broken 
up! [She and Mrs. A. hurry out.] 

[83] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Grand, [rises and starts to follow them. She catches sight of the 
costume which has been put over the back of the sofa, and she stops and 
eyes it reflectively '.] Pretty thing. [She picks it up and holds the skirt 
against her.] Why, it was once mine! [She thinks for a second or 
or two, then she looks at the clock on the mantelpiece^ They won't 
be back for some time, I think. [She holds the bodice up to her.] 
Why not? No one need ever know. I'll have my final fling alone, 
and that can't disgrace the family. [She gives a wild pirouette of 
glee, takes off her spectacles, wraps them up in her shawl and sticks 
them behind the cushion on the left end of the couch. The ingenue spirit 
is fast breaking its bonds. She reaches for the flowered skirt, slips it 
over her head and fastens it, letting the black one drop from beneath it. 
Then she turns and catches sight of her reflection in the long mirror at 
the back, prim black waist, gay flowered skirt. She laughs gleefully. 
Suddenly she hears a voice outside the door. She takes the black skirt 
and bodice, darts behind the screen. Enter Mrs. Alexander. She 
pauses on threshold and calls "Did you say you didn't have it, Peggy? 
Yes, I remember I put it over the back of the sofa." She comes and looks 
on the sofa for the costume. It is gone. She looks around the room. 
She goes toward the screen, then changes her mind, opens door and calls 
"Jimmy, Jimmy", again "Jimmy, where did you hide that costume?" 
Exit. The stage is empty for a second or two; then Grandmother comes 
cautiously from behind the screen. She runs quickly over to the door 
and locks it. She wears the full costume except the slippers. She looks 
at her feet, flat and black, in the mirror and laughs gaily. Then she 
sees the slippers under the sofa. She pounces upon them and puts them 
on. Then she rearranges her white hair, and finally seeing a make-up 
box on Peggy's desk, she begins to "make-up" . In a few minutes the 
transformation is complete; she is no longer Grandmother, but a very 
lovely young girl. She takes the despised black clothes and rolling 
them in a ball, she hides them behind the cushion at the left end of the 
sofa. She turns off all the lights in the room but one soft shaded rose 
lamp. Then she pirouettes gaily around. She pauses, goes over to 
the mirror above the fire place and after surveying herself critically, she 
adds some lip stick. A voice from the open glass door: "Up to the old 
tricks, I see." Grandmother turns quickly, startled and terrified. In 
the doorway stands a youth in costume. 

Grand, [recoiling] Oh, how you frightened me! 

[8 4 ] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Youth. I beg your pardon, truly, but I thought it was Peg. 
I didn't expect to find you here. 

Grand. I don't wonder. I hardly expected to find myself 
here. Won't you come in? 

Youth [with an obvious effort at making conversation] Did you 
arrive unexpectedly? 

Grand. Very, [laughs] I almost stayed away entirely. 

Youth [taking a bold plunge] But I'm glad you didn't. 

Grand. Oh, what a nice person you are. I like you, I always 
have. 

Youth. Why, you don't know me. 

Grand. Rather you don't know me. But then I knew all 
along you wouldn't recognize me. 

Youth. No, truly I remember, — really I — [desperately] It was 
at the Brown's dance. 

Grand. Oh, no it wasn't. 

Youth. Then it was the Carter's. [Grand, shakes her head.] 
No, well then — Oh, I say, you know it isn't quite fair, all that costume 
and make-up and stuff. 

Grand. You're right. A masquerade does change things a 
bit. [Pause.] 

Youth. But still it seems to me as though I had seen you. I 
remember something. 

Grand, [slightly alarmed] Oh, no you don't; for you see I've never 
met you. 

Youth. Now you're trying to trip me up, but you can't fool 
me. There is something familiar. 

Grand. But there can't be, truly. I was just teasing you. 
You squirmed so nicely. 

Youth [looking at her intently] I guess you're right, and I'm glad 
you are, for now you can't think me an awful duffer for forgetting, 
can you? 

Grand. Of course I wouldn't think that of you. Would you 
like to stay and talk with me, for a few minutes? 

Youth. May I? 

Grand. Yes, it will be a little party all our own before we join 
the others. Come, let's be comfortable. [Youth goes toward the sofa.] 

Youth. Shall we sit here? 

[85] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Grand, [quickly] No, oh no, I hate sofas. Let's sit here. [She 
goes toward the big chair and perches on the edge.] 

Youth. You don't look a bit comfortable. There, let me get 
you a cushion. [Moves to the sofa.] 

Grand. No, truly I hate cushions too. 

Youth [drawing up a chair and sitting down] Well, you are hard 
to please. Won't you tell me who you are? 

Grand. Who are you? 

Youth. I asked first. 

Grand. If I told, you might not like me. 

Youth [surprised] Why not? 

Grand. Perhaps it's only the masquerade you like. 

Youth [rather embarrassed] I — eh, eh — think it's you. 

Grand. A masquerade hides many things, — wrinkles, frowns, 
old age — 

Youth, [beaming a positive] But not on you. [Embarrassed at 
his boldness] Oh, I say, it's getting late. 

Grand. Yes, it is, and you must be going to join the other 
guests. 

Youth. Yes. [Pause] We'd better move along. 

Grand. I said you. I have a few changes in my costume to 
make before I come down. 

Youth. Well, you must promise me some dances before I go. 

Grand. I'll give you as many as you want — in the ballroom. 

Youth [chuckling] They may be gone before I can get to you. 
I want them now. 

Grand. It's getting very late; you really must go. 

Mrs. A. [voice] Mother, oh Mother, let me in immediately. 

Grand. Oh, no, no, don't. I, I don't want anyone to see me 
in my costume until the dance begins. 

Youth. It's only Mrs. Alexander. [He goes over and opens 
door. Enter Mrs. A. carrying a tea-tray .] 

Mrs. A. [putting down tray] Why, Dick, what on earth are you 
doing here — with the door locked? 

Dick [laughingly] I came in the back way, so I can't explain about 
the side door. I promised Peggy I'd come over early to see if I could 
be useful. 

Mrs. A. But whom were you talking to? 

[86] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Dick. Why er — [Grandmother who has been standing in 
shadow comes forward.] 

Grand, [in low voice] It is I. 

Mrs. A. Why, Miss Major, you came much earlier than any 
of us had expected. 

Grand, [surprised and relieved] Yes, I didn't think I could get 
here so promptly. 

Dick [in surprise] Miss Major — 

Grand, [nodding] Yes. [Dick looks perplexed.] 

Mrs. A. But why didn't you tell some of us? 

Grand. Peggy gave me such minute directions I thought I'd 
follow them instead of bothering anyone. I was afraid some one 
would come in while I was dressing so I locked the door. 

Mrs. A. That was most thoughtful, but [anxiously] has anyone 
seen my mother? 

Grand. A little old lady in black? 

Mrs. A. Yes. 

Grand. She went out as I came in. 

Mrs. A. Where on earth could she have gone? 

Grand. She said she needed a change. I think she went into 
the garden. 

Mrs. A. Mother in the garden at this time of night! Poor 
dear, she'll be certain to take cold. I shall have to send Parsons to 
look for her. In the meantime, her tea will grow cold. You will 
excuse me, won't you? [They both bow. She goes toward the door.] 

Mrs. A. [to grandmother] I'll send Peggy down to you as soon as 
possible. 

Grand. There's no hurry I assure you. [Exit Mrs. A.] 

Grand, [to Dick] Now you must go. 

Dick [grimly] Leave you here ? Not a chance. 

Grand. I'll give you any number of dances you want. 

Dick. It's not dances I want, — now. 

Grand. What do you want? 

Dick. To know why you told Mrs. Alexander that you were 
Miss Major. 

Grand. Can't I tell my own name? 

Dick. You don't seem to be able to. 

Grand. What do you mean? 

[87] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Youth. I know Katharine Major and I know you are not she. 
Grand, [laughing rather uneasily] What a "much ado about 
nothing". I never said I was Katharine. I'm her sister. 
Dick [laughs] Katharine is an only child. 
Grand, [crestfallen] Oh. 
Dick. Who are you? 

Grand. Oh, I'm Madame X. The unknown quantity. 
Dick. Here, that won't go. 

Grand. Then I will. [She starts for the door, but Dick %rabs 
her wrist and holds her back.] 

Dick. Ygu don't get away from me. I've got your number. 
You were afraid to meet Mrs. Alexander, you didn't want me to 
open the door, and then you tried to run away, [getting excited] 
You even changed your voice when you talked to her. Oh, I've got 
your number. 

Grand. Well, what is it? 
Dick. It's a prison number. You're a crook. 
Grand. Oh! 

Dick. Sure. You thought, with the costume and everything, 
it would be easy money, come now, own up. 
Grand. I won't, because I'm not. 
Dick. Then what are you? 
Grand. I can't tell you that, but I'm not a thief, I give you my 

word. 

Dick. I'd rather have you in hand cuffs. 

Grand. Let me go. [She attempts to pull away from him. 
Enter Jimmy, calling^ 

py, Jimmy. Oh, Gran [stops short when he sees Dick struggling with 
the girl infancy dress] Oh, Gee, what's up? 

Dick [excitedly] Now, Jimmy, just keep cool, don't get excited, 
don't lose your head or anything. 

Jimmy. Say, what's eatin' you? 

Dick. I've got a thief here. 

Jimmy. A thief! Oh, quit your kiddin'! I don't see any thief. 

Dick. Use your eyes, bonehead. [He points to Grandmother 
who has stopped struggling.] 

Jimmy. Aw, come off. That's only a girl! 

[ 88 ] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Dick. She's a thief all the same. You look behind the cushions 
on that sofa and you'll see what she has stolen. [Jimmy picks up 
the cushion at the right end and lifts up a gold pendant and chain .1 

Jimmy. Whew! I guess you're right. 

Grand, [really startled] But, but I didn't put that there. 

Dick. I guess not. [to Jimmy] Now, Jimmy, I'm going to 
get your mother, and the police. Do you think you can keep this, 
this woman from escaping? 

Jimmy [dubiously] I guess so. You going to leave me with her 
alone ? 

Dick. Sure, you aren't a Jraid cat are you? 

Jimmy. No. [Dick starts to let go the Grandmother s hand.] 
Hold on there, don't go yet. I gotta have somethin' to defend 
myself with. [He goes over to the fire place and gets the tongs. Coming 
up to Dick and Grandmother.] Now, I guess you can go. [As Dick 
lets go her wrist Jimmy grabs it nervously. Exit Dick.] 

Grand, [slightly amused] Oh, you needn't grab me like that. 
I won't try to escape in the face of your dreadful weapon. [Jimmy 
grips both the tongs and the wrist harder.] Well, of course, if you will 
hold my hand! Let's sit on the sofa where you can enjoy it more 
comfortably. 

Jimmy [dropping her hand] I don't want to hold any girl's hand. 

Grand. I thought not. You look to me like a boy who would 
rather hold a baseball. Do you play pitcher? 

Jimmy. Yeah. 

Grand. I thought so and I bet you're captain of the team. 

Jimmy. How'd you know? 

Grand. Why, you look it. Do you think I look like a thief? 

Jimmy [in disgust] Naw. 

Grand. I haven't even a mask or a pistol or knuckles. 

Jimmy. You couldn't use knuckles if you wanted to. You're 
nothin' but a girl! 

Grand. If I'm nothin' but a girl, why don't you help me escape ? 

Jimmy. Well, there's somethin' in that; but how about that 
pendant? 

Grand. I didn't put it there. Peggy probably lost it. 

Jimmy. Guesso. Peg's always losing' things, and then she 
says / have 'em. 

[8 9 ] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Grand. Come on, Jimmy, help me get away. 

Jimmy. Well — \suspiciously] Why don't you want to see 
mother? If you aren't a thief, she can't hurt you. 

Grand. Jimmy, didn't you ever do something very foolish 
that you didn't want anyone, especially your mother, to find out? 

Jimmy. You bet, especially Mother. 

Grand. Then Jimmy, you can understand my feelings at the 
present moment. 

Jimmy. Well.... 

Grand. It would be just like a story! — the brave young hero 
helps the innocent though misunderstood heroine to flee from her 
evil pursuers. 

Jimmy. It sounds all right. 

Grand. And you know, Jimmy, in the story the hero always 
receives a reward from the heroine. 

Jimmy. Sure, that's the part I hate, — slush, nothin' but slush. 
She says to him "You have saved my life" and then she gives him 
a kiss. Nothin' doing! 

Grand. But I mean a real reward. Some day you might 
receive a mysterious package and with trembling fingers, you would 
untie the cord. 

Jimmy. Not a chance! I'd cut it with my new knife! 

Grand. Yes, you probably would. Inside you'd find a card 
saying "To my hero". 

Jimmy. Is that all? 

Grand. Don't interrupt, — and a bright new pistol. 

Jimmy. Not a real one? 

Grand. Do you think I'd give a boy like you a toy pistol? 

Jimmy. A real pistol ? Gosh ! When Dick even hasn't got one ! 

Grand. Well? 

Jimmy. Well — 

Grand. Of course, if you're afraid of Dick, — 

Jimmy. Me, afraid of Dick? Come on. But mind you be 
quiet. Don't you think I'd better take the tongs? 

Grand. By all means. 

Jimmy. And I'll show you a special way through the garden. 
[They steal toward the back of the stage. In the open door, Jimmy 
pauses and waves the tongs dramatically \ I'd like to see anyone try 

[90] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

to stop us now. [They go. The stage is empty. Enter Mrs. Alexander, 
Peggy and Dick at one side.] 

Peggy. Well, anyway she didn't steal the pendant. I lost 
it myself this morning. 

Mrs. A. Well, I think she was a thief. I didn't like her when 
I first met her and I am never mistaken in my first impressions. But 
where is she, Dick? 

Dick. Why, why I left them here. [He looks helplessly around. 
Then seeing the screen, runs over and looks behind that.] 

Dick. They've — 

Peggy. Escaped ! 

Mrs. A. Really, Dick, I should think you would have taken 
precautions. 

Dick. Oh, I say, Mrs. Alexander. I thought it was all right. 
You know, Jimmy had the tongs. 

Peggy [in disgust] Jimmy and the tongs! What a combination! 

Mrs. A. But Jimmy has gone too. [She pauses.] This is 
very strange, Dick, much stranger than I like. I think we had better 
send for a detective. 

Peggy. Oh, Mother, nothing's lost! Let's go! 

Mrs. A. [quietly] You forget Jimmy. 

Peggy. He'll turn up. 

Dick. He always does. 

Peggy. And there now, the music's begun, we've got to go or 
people will think it funny. Come on, Mums. 

Mrs. A. Just be quiet for a few minutes, Peggy. Of course, 
Dick, I realize that this may seem a foolish idea to you, but I think 
Jimmy has been kidnapped. 

Peggy [muttering angrily] Who'd take Jimmy for a gift? Oh, 
listen to the music. 

Mrs. A. Peggy, I asked you to be quiet. [Peggy turns away 
and walks over to the sofa. Sits down.] 

Dick. Honestly, Mrs. Alexander, I'm sorry; why — 

Peggy. Mother! Here are all of Gran's clothes! [She holds 
up the skirt, waist, etc.] 

Mrs. A. Mother's clothes! [She sinks down in the big chair.] 
This is — stranger than I like. 

[91] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Dick. Gee! Something is wrong. 

Peggy [for the first time subdued] You read about such things, 
but — 

Jimmy [voice from back.] "Say aren't you people going to the 
dance?" [Jimmy, with the inevitable tongs, comes down stage.] 

Mrs. A. [rising and hurrying toward him] Jimmy, Jimmy. [She 
tries to embrace him.] 

Jimmy [drawing back and waving tongs] Gee, it's good I've got 
somethin' to protect myself with! 

Mrs. A. Jimmy, you're safe! 

Jimmy. Sure, why not? 

Dick. Say, kid, how did ycu do it? 

Jimmy. Oh, it takes me to do things! 

Peggy. But the woman, Jimmy, the crook, how did you get away ? 

Jimmy [puzzled] Get away? [suddenly light breaks] Gosh, I believe 
you think she ran away with me. 

Dick. Sure, kidnapped. 

Jimmy. Say, they kidnap kids. Let me tell you somethin', 
Dick, — don't you forget it. I ran away with her. 

All [in consternation] Jimmy! 

Mrs. A. But your Grandmother, Jimmy, what became of her? 
Did you see her? 

Jimmy. Sure. 

Mrs. A. [eagerly] Where is she now? 

Peggy. Tell us, Jimmy, quickly. 

Jimmy. Can't you guess? 

Mrs. A. This is no time for guessing games. 

Jimmy. Oh, all right. She's at the dance, and you better hurry 
up and get there, Peg, or there won't be anyone for you to dance 
with. You ought to see the men around Gran. 

Mrs. A. Jimmy, what are you talking about! 

Peggy. I know, Mother, I know. She did it after all. Good 
for Gran! Don't you see? There wasn't any thief, it was Gran. 

Mrs. A. Your Grandmother! 

Dick. Well, what do you think of that! 

Jimmy. She said she was going to have her final fling in spitc 
of everything. 

[92] 



INGENUOUS GRANDMOTHER 

Mrs. A. What can I do? 

Jimmy. Nothin'. You can't stop Gran and me, when we get 
started. [He waves the tongs dramatically^ 



CURTAIN 



[93] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

EDITH M. LEVY 



CHARACTERS 

George Craig a very young writer 

Elsie Lawson a young actress 

Augustus Johnson a theatrical manager 

Miss Briggs his typist 

Mr. Hartley a playwright 

Bill Wright an actor 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

[The curtain rises and shows the outer office of a theatrical manager. 
At the center of the back is a door leading to the inner office, and on the 
frosted glass in gold letters is the one word "Manager." The room is 
done simply, almost austerely in dark green with mission chairs and 
table and a stiff square little bench in front of the table at center. Miss 
Briggs is typing very fast and very hard at left and Mr. Hartley is sitting 
on one of the chairs at right. Miss Briggs is a severely dressed uncom- 
promising looking woman of about jo, with a self confident air of com- 
plete efficiency. Mr. Hartley is a small thin old man, who is dozing 
with his chin on the head of a gold topped cane. After a moment or 
two the door at the rear opens, and the manager, an important looking 
man, with tortoise-shell rimmed glasses on a black ribbon is seen showing 
out a very young man.] 

Mr. Johnson. Thank you very much for coming to me. 
Good morning. 

George. Thank you sir. Good morning. 

Mr. Johnson [catching sight of old Hartley on a chair by the 
door] Ah! Good morning, Mr. Hartley. Glad to see you. Come 
right in. Sorry to have kept you waiting. [Closes door behind him 
on the last words.] 

[George is a tall boy of about twenty with fine features, but pale 
and undernourished looking; just now bearing an expression of the 
utmost despair and dejection. He is quite a usual looking young man y 
such as one meets in dozens on the streets daily. He moves a little 
forward as the manager and Mr. Hartley go in, and now remains stand- 
ing in the same position as though he lacked the energy to move. Miss 
Briggs is again typing busily. After a moment or two she looks over 
her shoulder, sees George still standing there.] 

Miss Griggs. Anything I can do for you? 

George [despairingly] I guess not, thanks. I'm trying to 
decide where to go now. 

j^JVLiss Briggs. Out of work? 

[99] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

George. Yes. Don't see just what's going to happen next. 
[feelingly] I'm about at the end of my rope. 

Miss Briggs [Turning back to her typing] Well, you can take 
any chair you choose, and sit here for awhile, if you want to. 

George. Thanks. [Looks slowly, despondently around the 
room, at last bringing his eyes back to Miss Briggs. Then hopefully] 
Getting cold out now! [No answer from Miss Briggs. She is typing 
very hard, and pays no attention to George. He sits down with a deep 
sigh on chair at back right. A silence. Then the sound of muffled 
voices from the inner office reminds him of something?^ What is the 
name of the old guy who went in after me? 

Miss Briggs [very short and tart] Frederick Hartley. 

George [smiling bitterly] Oh yes! I guess he got a four dollar 
welcome. That's the way of these fool managers. [Slight pause.] 
Once a man has a name, that's all he needs to have. [Another pause.] 
But they do their best to keep you from getting one. [Sulks a little. 
Miss Briggs has gone on typing, seemingly oblivious to his presence. 
After another pause, stretching a little] Well, I guess I might as well — 
[At this moment a small, dark girl appears at the door. She is pretty 
and simply dressed, and moves with a quick vivacious air. George 
thinks better of his decision, and sits down again. He watches her 
.interestedly .] 

Girl. Can I see the manager please? 
Miss Briggs. He's busy now. 
Girl. Will I have to wait long? 

Miss Briggs. Can't tell. Take a seat. [Girl sits down on 
bench in center ', and looks around slowly. Her expression is distinctly 
doubtful, her lips begin to quiver, she gulps once or twice, and finally 
bursts into tears. Miss Briggs, in silence, takes the letter she has 
finished off the typewriter, folds it, puts it into an envelope, and goes 
out with it. Each action is deliberate and businesslike; she is seemingly 
unconscious of what goes on in the room. George, on the contrary, 
shows all signs of intense discomfort. He half rises to go to the girl, 
but the invisible hand of Convention pulls him back. He fidgets on 
his chair and bites his lips. Finally when Miss Briggs is well out of 
the way, he makes the decision. Goes up and leans over the back of 
the bench.] 

I ioo] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

George [much embarrassed\ I — I beg your pardon, but could 
I — I mean — may I be — of any — er — assistance to you ? 

Girl [Looks up with a start. Gives George a watery smile.] Thank 
you. I — I guess I'm just nervous. The manager said maybe he'd 
have a job for me and I just must get it. 
George. Gee, I hope you do. 

Girl. Oh! I simply must. I've been out of work for so long 
now. I — I'm just at the end of my rope. 

George [Struck by the marvelous similarity in their cases comes 
around and sits down beside her.] Say, that's queer. I was just 
saying that very thing not ten minutes ago. 
Girl. You on the stage too? 

George [Begins with a certain amount of pride, but loses this in 
self pity before he has gone far. It is evident L , however, that he rather 
enjoys having someone to talk to.] No, I'm a writer. I've been getting 
along pretty well, writing stories for the magazines — the cheaper 
ones. They pay just as much and they're not so particular. I 
wrote book-reviews for awhile. But, Great Scott, you only get 
two dollars apiece for them, and they give you huge stupid volumes 
to wade through. 

Girl. It must take awfully long. 

George. Well, you see, I didn't have time to read the books, 
so my reviews weren't always — er — accurate, and they decided to 
worry along without me. 

Girl. Oh! I think that's a shame. 

George [secretly pleased, but trying to be big and manly] Well, 
maybe they were right. But it is tough when your money's nearly 
gone, and there doesn't seem to be any hope ahead. 

Girl. Why don't you go on with the stories? 

George [pauses a moment, then decides to confide in her] I'll tell 
you. It's a terrible thing to have happen — terrible to a man who 
earns his bread by his writing. [Impressively .] I'm written out. 
There isn't a thing left to write on. Everything in the world has 
been written up long ago. I was born too late. 

Girl. I never did see how people could be original these days. 

George [excitedly] Original ! Why, my dear Miss — my dear — 
er — it's impossible to be original. I've tried for a week now, and it 

[IOI] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

can't be done. {Melodramatically .] The only thing left is the river, 
and that's been done to death. 

Girl [thinks she will laugh at this pun, but sees George 's miserable 
expression, and changes her mind. Asks sympathetically] What are 
you doing here? 

George. Well, I wrote a play, and submitted it to Mr. Johnson. 
He sent for me to come today, and see him about it. 

Girl [quite peevishly] And he didn't take it? 

George [attempting to be magnanimous again] No, but he was 
very nice about it. He said it had promise, but that it was impossible 
to use it in its present form. 

Girl. Why? 

George. Well, he said the material was immaturely handled, 
and didn't show much knowledge of human nature. 

Girl [defensively] Well, what does he expect of a boy — a man as 
young as you are. 

George. That's it. He said I was too young for this form of 
art, and I should have more experience of life before attempting it. 
Bosh! Tommy-rot! I guess you don't have to wait till your hair 
is grey and your teeth fall out to be able to write. I've lived a lot 
already, and I know a thing or two about this old world. You can 
take my word for it too, it's a pretty poor sort of a hole. 

Girl [endeavoring to change the subject and be helpful at the same 
time] I had a beau once who wrote stuff and he said the world was full 
of it, and every last person you met on the streets would fill a book. 

George [distinctly irritated] Nonsense! Damned idiotic rot! 
I've heard these mooning sentimental bounders say things like that, 
but they just think it sounds well. Not one of them means it. 
And I wouldn't write the sort of stuff they do if I could — could spin 
it by the yard. [The conversation has become too technical, and 
George wants a relief. He now lets his head sink in his hands. With 
tragic emphasis] Well, what's the difference? No one cares what 
becomes of me anyhow. 

[The girl does not seem to think that this needs any answer. A 
slight pause. The door at the rear opens, and Mr. Johnson is seen 
showing Mr. Hartley out.] 

Mr. Johnston. I'm very sorry indeed Mr. Hartley. Under- 

[ 102 ] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

stand me,, the play has promise, but it is impossible to use it in its 
present form. 

Mr. Hartley. Strange, strange, after all these years of play- 
wrighting. 

Mr. Johnston. That's just it. You've been at it too long. 
Your work hasn't got the snap and sparkle that it used to have. 

Mr. Hartley. True, true. Ah, why don't we think more of 
youth while we have it? I thank you, sir. Good day to you. 

Mr. Johnston. Good day. 

[He turns his back and retires to his office. The girl has risen a 
little timidly to approach him, but he is gone before she gets her courage 
up. George, remembering his manners, has risen too, and now remains 
up while she sinks back to her place.] 

George [gradually working himself up into quite a passion] Did 
you hear that? What do you think of that, I ask you? Isn't there 
any justice in the heavens? Is it right? Is it decent? He turns 
this poor old man down because he's too old, and he refuses me be- 
cause I'm too young. One hasn't enough experience, and I suppose 
the other has too much. It's unreasonable, it's — Great Scott, it's — 

Girl [nervously] Do hush. We'll both be sent packing in a 
minute if he hears you. 

[He is somewhat squelched and sits down with a resumption of his 
former air of despair.] 

George [bitterly] What a ghastly joke life is anyway. 

Girl [eagerly] Why, here's something to write about! 

George. No — no. It's trite, worn out. Hundreds of people 
have written thousands of times on things just like that. It's known 
as the "youth and age" theme, though you probably don't under- 
stand that. No, it's another worn out subject — there is probably 
nothing that has been overworked as that has. 

[Both young people look very melancholy. Miss Briggs enters 
brusquely at right and goes across to typewriter. Begins a sharp rat-tat- 
tat. A pause. A wildly disheveled young man appears at the door 
and rushes into the room. 

Miss Briggs [in her most matter of fact tones] Come right in, Bill. 

Bill [shouts] I have but one question to ask of you, Miss Briggs. 
[Miss Briggs looks over her shoulder unconcernedly, her hand still on 
the keys, her eyebrows raised.] I wont keep you long, Miss Briggs. 

[ 103] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

It is a simple question, but one that means all the world to me. 

Miss Briggs. Yes? 

Bill. It is just this, and no more. Is Bancroft cast as Miss 
Valmoreau's lover again in this play? 

[Miss Briggs nods, and as if relieved that the question was no worse, 
turns back to her typing.] 

Bill [slowly, and with sinister emphasis] Very well. You may 
remove my name from your list completely. 

Miss Briggs [typing] Don't be a fool, Bill. It isn't so easy to 
get a job these days. 

Bill [intensely bitter] You are unable to understand what it means 
to the sensitive nature of an artist to see your girl being made love to, 
night after night, month after month, and year after year by your 
rival. I have given you my final decision. Good-bye forever. 

[Starts to make a dramatic exit which is somewhat marred by Miss 
Briggs 's next speech.] 

Miss Briggs. Come in any time after the fifteenth and I'll 
have your back pay ready. 

[Exit Bill. Miss Briggs types a moment, then there is a buzz from 
the inner office, and she goes in, shutting the door firmly behind her.] 

Girl [Her eyes grow big and she bursts forth as though she had been 
dying to speak all along.] Oh! What luck! Isn't this great? 
Here's just what you wanted for a story all to hand. 

George. Good Lord no! Why it would only work up into a 
love story. 

Girl. Well, what of that? 

George [working himself up more and more as he goes along] 
The world is sick and tired of the love stories. Of all things on the 
face of this earth that is worn out and trite and overdone, the love 
story is the worst. Why ever since the first chapter in Genesis, 
every fool that ever raised a pen has been writing silly, sentimental 
gush about love. You can't open a newspaper or hear a sermon with- 
out getting it. There isn't a book in print — except the telephone 
book — that isn't full of it. If a play doesn't reek with rot about love 
it's a dead failure the first night. The world is soaked in that kind of 
slush. I couldn't add a line to it without losing my self respect. 
No bribe, no — [Elsie has been growing less and less attentive after 
the first phrases. Now George in looking at her, sees that she isn't 

[ 104] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

hearing a word and is looking sadder by the second. He pauses a moment 
and then she bursts into tears. George goes into an agony of embarrass- 
ment and horror :] Oh! Please stop! Oh, Good Lord what is the 
matter? My soul, what shall I do? I didn't say anything that I 
shouldn't have, did I? I didn't hurt you or make you angry did I? 
For the love of heaven, tell me if I made you cry ? 

Girl [shakes her head violently at this, gulps out between sobs — ] 
No — o. I didn't have any lunch, and I'm tired — and — and — I 
must get that job, or I — I — don't know what will become of me. No- 
nobody cares, anyway. 

George [flings himself down beside her, and puts his arms around 
her] Please stop. Somebody does care, really. I care — ever so much. 
But please stop, please! I didn't realize it before, but now I know 
that I'm in love with you. Really, I felt it the moment I saw you, 
but I didn't know what it was. Wont you stop and wont you be- 
lieve me? 

Girl [Her sobs have been getting quieter during this speech and she 
now takes a peep at him over the top of her handkerchief. Softly] 
You're a nice boy. 

George. Will you let me hope or anything? 

Miss Briggs [opening the door suddenly] Is Miss Elsie Lawson here ? 

Girl [jumping up hurriedly] Oh! Yes. [She hurries off wiping 
her eyes. George rises to his feet and breathes deeply. He is beginning 
to take in the situation and his face shows some amazement and delight. 
Miss Briggs has gone back to her typing.] 

George [In the throes of an inspiration] Now— Gee! [Begins 
again after a moment.] Now — gosh! Now — I'll go home and write 
a play! 

Miss Briggs. Anything suitable for our use, Mr. Craig? 

George. Why, er— I haven't really got it thought out yet, 
but it's going to be a whiz! It'll be about a beautiful, wonderful 
Girl and a man who loves her. And — maybe there'll be an old man 
in it too, who loves her, but who hasn't the ghost of a chance. 

Miss Briggs [non-committal as ever] Well, bring it in when it's 
done, and let us see what you do with it. 

[A sudden idea strike George, and he goes through all his pockets, 
accumulating a small heap of coins of very unpretentious denominations. 
The door at the rear opens, and Elsie appears, radiant.] 

[105] 



AT THE END OF THE ROPE 

Elsie [rushing to George and clutching his free arm excitedly] I 
got it — I got the job, and two a week more than I expected. Oh, 
I am so glad, so glad. 

George [seriously] Now will you go to [glances at his hand] 
Child's with me and have supper? 

Elsie. Yes, I'd love to. 

George [very solemnly] What a wonderful world this is! 



CURTAIN 



[106] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

JUDITH MATLACK 



CHARACTERS 

Trevor 

Peer 

Caudlon 

Kay 

Irma 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

Scene : A stone court-yard with a flight of steps on each side at 
the left and right, leading up to wide doors. In the center back is a great 
iron gate, very heavy and high and on each side of it are flaring torches. 
At the right underneath the stairs is another door. The stage is myste- 
riously dark but there is moonlight outside because the bars of the gate are 
distinguishable against the luminous night. It is in the small hours 
of the morning. The door at the right at the head of the stairs opens 
suddenly, admitting a flood of light and the sound of revelry and music. 
As the door closes again, two figures descend and advance to the front of 
the stage. One is tall and spare, the other short and stout; both are clad 
in dominoes, the former treading carefully, the latter tripping over super- 
fluous folds. The stout one speaks from muffled depths. 

Caudlon. The devil take this winding-sheet! Unmasque me, 
Kay. Confound these masquerading balls that make such wallowing 
fools of honest men ! Here, lend me a hand ! [While Caudlon talks, 
Kay has removed his domino and stands, thin and spare, in a severe 
black cassock. He assists Caudlon to emerge.] 

Kay. I trust you make this strange excursion worth the time 
it takes to find a passage for your manly voice. [Caudlon comes 
forth arrayed in a startling scarlet garb.] What is this latest trick of 
Peer's you sputter of? I have the grace to thank the Lord he gave 
the ball, what with his pious turn of late. He has been twice to 
Church and even now, I note, to-night he took no wine. His dance 
is giddy but his eye is clear. 

Caudlon. Bah! I'm a sorry sight. The ladies will love me 
no longer. Where are the lights? Why must he keep his court- 
yard like a donjon? Porter, bring lights! [A porter enters from the 
door beneath the stairs at the right and lights two more torches at the 
extreme front-stage on the left and right.] 

Kay. So here's the new domain he's christening with this ball. 
It has the cheerful aspect of a cellar. 

Caudlon. A cellar! Nay, a prison-vault! And I speak not 
in jest. It is a grisly neighbor he has chosen. The prison guard- 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

house menaces his doors; its iron-barred windows cast black stripes 
across his portals, the murder-cells touch on that farther wall! [He 
points to the right \ 

Kay. It is respect to murderers then, that he chooses to caper 
as a convict at this hall! He is two natures lately. One half is 
mockery, the other mad! 

Caudlon. He is a fool, an idiot half the time, a white-faced 
stripling with a reckless heart. You do not know, you cannot guess 
the length to which his knavery has brought him! 

Kay. What is his game? Mere hide-and-seek among the 
convicts? 

Caudlon. Aye, aye, friend Kay, your words are truer than 
you know. 

Kay. He has poor taste to carry such a garb. Who wants to 
see a brace of convicts in a ball-room ? Who is the other? The two 
go chasing in and out among the dancers, their gaudy stripes as 
fitting as a widow's weeds, but for the life of me I could not wager 
which of the fools is he ! 

Caudlon. If you would hold your tongue and hear me out, 
you would not thirst for knowledge on that score. This is no trifling 
two-step. He dances death-defiant. I swear he courts self-murder 
with each step. 

Kay. What do you mean? 

Caudlon. Ten years ago when he was in his pretty prime and 
holding court at Liden, that merry counterpart of his had sworn to 
take his life. 

Kay. It's a real criminal, then. 

Caudlon. Aye, very real. 

Kay. What is his name? 

Caudlon. Trevor, I think, a man of lower caste but honest 
name. 

Kay. Familiar, somehow. The cause? 

Caudlon. Was Irma. 

Kay. Irma? Why, Irma left him. 

Caudlon. Aye, I believe, she changed her mind. That was 
a lucky day for us. She was too good for him. 

Kay. Too good for him! She had him near converted. He 
showed the signs that he has shown of late; sadness, fits of abstraction, 

[na] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

queer freaks of penitence, and tragic sighs. Heaven forbid he should 
again turn saint! What of this other man? Did Irma go to him? 

Caudlon. It was too late. Prince Peer had given orders. 
Trevor slept sweet in prison. 

Kay. Has been there ever since? 

Caudlon. Until to-night when Peer was pleased to flirt a bit 
with death. 

Kay. What devil's trick is this? 

Caudlon. Merely his madness. You know his gambling 
streak, how he must stake his all in one mad fling! 

Kay. So! It's his would-be murderer he apes! How do you 
know? 

Caudlon. Was I not here? Could not I read the workings of 
his mind as if he'd spoke his train of thought aloud? It was before 
the dance. I was perhaps a little previous. When I came in, he 
stood here in his prisoner's stripes. I may have been, well, slightly 
startled. 

Kay. No doubt you were! 

Caudlon. I could not see him in this gloomy light but when 
he turned, I saw his face and knew him. He had those mad, defiant 
eyes. "Some game is up", I thought, "and Peer is playing. God 
help the loser!" Then the great gate creaked and there I saw the 
hound come forth between his gaolers, hanging his shaven head, 
gripping his hands upon themselves, speaking old hatred with his 
shifting eyes. Peer barely moved and then I heard him speak. 
"Release the man, he is quite free," and then he turned and said, 
bowing his head: "Trevor, I think you know me. You are my guest 
to-night, at this my ball. You will perceive we're dressed alike. 
They'll not suspect you. I'm at your mercy now. Your time is 
ripe.". .Hah, the poor wretch turned purple and shoved away the 
shackles at his feet. . ."This is a trap", he muttered. "God damn 
you for a white-livered fool!" Then a gay group came in and Peer 
was lost among them and he skulked after him and so the dance 
began. 

Kay. Then it is true, there is more tragedy than jest in this 
affair. 

Caudlon. It's just his way of loving life, but dangerous. The 
man has cause enough to kill him. I am afraid for him, afraid! 

[113] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

Kay. Bah! You cannot understand, you blockhead! There 
is more back of this than you can see. Prank! This is no prank. 
It is the end of many things. I might have guessed his musings had 
a meaning. If he's not killed, he will turn monk. Look you, his 
nature is extreme. If he is drunk, he is a glorious fellow. But 
there was once a time as I remember, the very time this Irma was his 
love, when he was perilous near repentent. Then, then I trembled 
for our orgies. But when she left him, he came back again, only 
more reckless in debauchery. Now it would seem — the devil take 
him for his own confessor — he only seeks to expiate his sins. 

Caudlon. Ah, now you see things without provocation. He's 
but an audacious youth, flaunting a brave defiance at his rival, wooing 
his end with grave words, tipped with laughter. 

Kay. He has been strange of late, I tell you. Scarcely a smile 
has passed his curving lips — save for the kind of smile I dread the 
sight of, that slow, mad smile that laughs at wine to toss it from him 
and spread its untouched redness on the banquet-floor. Even 
the sweetness of caresses chills him. He paces cold and white 
and set of jaw! And then his prison-neighbor! Why should he 
choose to cower beneath its shades? It is remorse that's biting at 
his entrails; it is the fear of hell that stares him in the eyes! 

Caudlon. Enough of this! Good Kay, you make a mountain 
of a mole-hill. I almost wish I'd never told. He is too good a man 
to turn a saint. As for this court-yard, though it may be gloomy, 
yonder is music, light and love. 

Kay. True, true enough and if he dies, it matters not to us, 
but for the fact that there'll be balls the less. Look there! The 
moon grows pale! They'll be unmasquing soon. Shall we return? 

Caudlon. Damn me if I'll go back if I must don this under- 
taker's cloth! 

Kay. Tush, this tomfoolery is over, the ball is done and Peer 
is yet alive. We are a pair of gossip-traffickers ! Hark! What is 
that? [A faint knocking is heard. The ?nen pause and listen. It is 
repeated^ A knocking at the gate at this ungodly hour! 

Voice [outside] Pray you, good sirs, is this the prison-gate? 

Caudlon [laughing] The prison-gate! Aye, hussy, do you not 
see the bars? 

[in] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

Voice. Yes, yes, I beg you, let me in. I must be there to meet 
him with the dawn. 

Caudlon. Here, on with my robe ! It is some old hag, seeking 
boons. This is a chance for honest masquerading. Come Kay, 
play up! I'll be the warden. You are my trusty gaoler, tried and 
true. 

Kay. Bring the dame in. If she affords us not a laugh, at least 
she can go packing! 

Caudlon [drawing on his domino and opening the gate] Come in, 
come in, old crone ! This is an easy gate to enter but it is not an easy 
gate to leave! 

[A slender veiled figure clad in long, black garments advances steadily 
and pauses.} 

Caudlon [stumping after her] Well, what will you have? Who 
is this "he" that comes before the dawn? 

Irma [lifting her veil] It is the convict Trevor. 

Caudlon. The convict Trevor! [aside] Good God, it's she! 

Kay [aside] Hold, not a word! She does not know us. We'll 
make the most of this ! [advancing] Madam, what do you know of 
him? How came you by this news? 

Irma. Why gentlemen, it was my right to know. Ten years 
ago when he was first imprisoned, I was at fault before my Maker. 
It was for love of me. I could not reason with the judges. The 
most that they could promise me was notice of the terms of his 
release. Last night — to-night — when was it? It seems a we'ek, 
perhaps a year ago! — they came and told me they'd had orders to 
let the convict Trevor free at dawn. Perhaps they did not tell you ? 

Kay [aside] This is a sudden sequel to the tale ! [to Irma] Does 
Prince Peer know of this? 

Irma [startled] Prince Peer! Why do you mention him? — No, 
no, he does not know! He does not know I am alive. Ah, good, kind 
sirs, pray not a word to him ! I swear it's no concern of his. They 
promised me he should not hear of this. I think it strange that you 
have not been told — Perhaps, perhaps I am deceived! Perhaps 
it is not true that he is freed! Tell me that they have lied and I 
will go — 

Kay. They have not lied to you. Trevor is free but — wait 
there beside the gate, [aside to Caudlon] Here is a way. If we can 

[1151 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

get him here without Peer's knowledge, she will get rid of him before 
harm's done. And when Peer learns of it, he will forget his pious 
mood and drown his anger in his cups. 

Caudlon. Lord love you for a proper-thinking man! 

Kay. We have no time to lose. [To Irma] We'll find the man, 
my lady, and bring him to you with the dawn! 

[The two men go out at the right by the stairs ■, leaving Irma standing 
among the shadows while outside a rosy glow steals softly across the sky. 
She moves back and leans against the gate, silhouetted against the black 
bars. The twittering of the birds makes her raise her head to listen. 
There is a distant click. She starts and looks quickly toward the door 
at the left which opens to admit a man clad in the brilliant red-and- 
white stripes of a convict. He closes the door quickly and descends 
quietly to the stage. He pauses outside the door under the stairs to the 
right.] 

Peer. Ho, porter! Bring more wine! [He leans against the 
wall with bowed head.} 

Porter [appearing at the door] More wine, sir? 

Peer. Yes, much more! 

Porter. For you, sir? 

Peer. No, no, not for me, — upstairs. — Is it holding out? 

Porter. Aye sir, three vaults is empty, but there's yet a fourth ! 

Peer. Empty that, too. There'll be no balls after to-night! 
[as if to himself] Let them get drunk and drink themselves to death. 
It's what they come for! [to the porter] Off with you, sir! I'll wait a 
bit. The dog won't find me here to lick me with his poisonous tongue 
— and it is cool — and out beyond — [he gazes toward the glowing 
sky and sees the figure of Irma against the iron bars] — hold, porter, 
who is that? 

Porter. Indeed I cannot say. I've been within. Some lady 
from the ball perhaps? 

Peer. Perhaps — Well, get you gone! [The porter ascends 
the stairs at the right, carrying a heavy basket and Peer turns toward 
Irma. He speaks gently.] The dawn is beautiful. Are you not 
thinking that? [She does not move.] You are not like the rest, to 
come here by yourself. Something has troubled you? [Still, she 
does not speak. He touches her gently on the shoulders.] May I not 
see your face? [As if against her will, she raises her face to his.] 

[116] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

Irma! [He embraces her fiercely before she can break away. As she 
struggles, he releases her.] 

Irma. Why — why are you here? Why are you dressed like 
that? I do not understand! They told me — Trevor — I came for 
him! 

Peer. Came to my house for Trevor? How did you know 
that he was here? 

Irma. Came to your house! Peer, is not this the prison? 

Peer. Aye, it's the prison of my making. Yonder's the one 
where Trevor spent his life. Some drivelling fool has had his little 
joke! 

Irma. Then I must go! I pray you do not keep me. 

Peer. Nay, if it's he you want, you must stay here. 

Irma. What? Is he here within your castle? 

Peer. Yes, I am — entertaining him to-night. 

Irma. This is some trap of yours, some heinous cunning! 

Peer. Nay, it is only justice, masquerading at a ball! 

Irma. Masquerading! So that is what you're doing! Mock- 
ing his livery with your shameful dress! 

Peer. You must remember, it is the sacred duty of a host to 
set his guests at ease. But you have come for him — a different 
ending, somehow, from the one I had foreseen. — Wait here, I'll 
send him to you. 

Irma. Will you come back? 

Peer. Come back? No, I shall not return. 

Irma. Ah wait! Those other men will bring him! 

Peer. Irma! 

Irma. I'm frightened. Stay and talk to me. 

Peer. What is the use, my dear, since you have not come back 
tome? Just for an instant when I saw your eyes and felt your cool, 
fair face against my hands, I thought that God was good to me. 
Now I perceive that He is only mocking. Irma, why did you leave 
me? 

Irma. It was not right we should have ever loved. Just at 
the first, it was your strange, strong beauty that held me fluttering 
like a tangled bird — 

Peer. Only my beauty, Irma? Not my love? 

Irma. Yes — but it was a love that hurts me. It was not good. 

[117] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

Its taste was bitter-sweet. Trevor was not controlled! His passion, 
broke its bounds and overwhelmed him — and yet, I think it was a 
noble love. Oh, he was like a child with sudden storms of devastat- 
ing tears. You never wept for me, as he did. I was the mistress 
of his mighty strength. I knew I was — and yet, I did not help him, — 
because you held me, heart and soul and mind. Where he was weak, 
Peer, you were mighty. It seemed you ruled the world and with it, 
me. When you were with me, Peer, then I was happy, happy be- 
cause I knew that you were mine. When you were gone, my heart 
was heavy, because I was not sure that you were mine. I tried to 
make you see my way of living, but every effort seemed to weary you. 
I could not lead you, so I had to leave you to find the man whose life 
I could control, to bring him some atonement for his sinning because 
his love was high, and yours was low! 

Peer. Just as I stood upon the misty threshold, waiting for 
you to bless me with your holy love, saddened perhaps because of my 
transgressions, helo! back a little by my conscious guilt, you turned 
and left me there — your sudden absence leaving it dark where it 
was light before. And so I stumbled at the sacred portals and when 
I saw the light, it was in hell! 

Irma. Peer, do you mean I might have saved you? [The door 
at the right above the stairs opens and Kay and Caudlon holding a 
prisoner between them, come down. While they approach] 

Peer. Forget what I mean, now; it does not matter! 

Kay [perceiving Peer and starting] You here, Peer? What is 
this game you're playing? She's come for him. You'd better let 
them go! 

Peer. It's my affair. I think you've done your duty. I 
thank you, gentlemen, you are dismissed! 

Caudlon. The devil take you for a maudlin idiot! 

Kay. You are unarmed, sir. Pray accept my sword. 

Peer. Thank you, there is no need. Good-morning. 

Caudlon. Good-morning! I'm off to bed! 

[The two men go out by the gate. Irma advances timidly toward 
Trevor who has not seen her. He stands with a lowered head and 
speaks without turning.] 

Trevor. What do you want with me? W 7 hy have you dragged 
me out? Is it to prove your power in their eyes? Is it a ghastly 

[118] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

warning to some other fool? Aye, late last night they brought me 
word that I was free. I had not heard the word for ten long years. 
And then they lead me out and stood me here, to face with stupid 
eyes your dazzling stripes. And then you said your little speech to 
me! You at my mercy! [laughs] I could not understand. I 
only stumbled after your fleeting figure and shuddered at the light. 
Is this some hideous trap you've laid for me, baiting it with your 
mocking, serious face ? Flaunting your red youth in my jealous eyes ? 
Waiting to see me, blind with rage, rear up to kill and failing, plunge 
to die? 

Irma [coming nearer] Trevor 

Trevor. Whose voice is that? 

Irma. I came to see — 

Trevor [starting toward her] Irma! I had forgotten! Of course 
you would be here! And you are quite the same, dear, after all 
the years! There is no music like you golden voice. Ah, but you 
are not mine, as once I though you were! I have no right to say such 
words to you. God bless you, Irma! Where are my chains, sir? 
Now you have played with me, I must return. 

Peer. Wait! For one word! I have no grudge against you. 
Since last we met, I've seen both sides of life. I was too slow to 
change. At last, she left me. When I fell back, the evil way was 
clear. These dancing, drunken years brought me but anguish, in- 
tensified by what they might have been! The thought of you, then 
crept into my nightmares. Sometimes, you leered at me and shook 
your chains. And then I saw you working in the quarry and heard 
your bending back crack as you walked. Now for a week, I've lived 
beside your prison, and every night, I've paced this prison-floor 
and thought how length of time makes old hate strengthen and poisons 
everything that men call life. And so I planned to seek peace at 
the pleasure of you to whom my death must be so sweet — 

Trevor. So you intended me to take your life! I am the 
rope by which you hang yourself! I am the sword with which you 
stab your heart! If life be hell, would God you always lived! Irma, 
my sweetheart, he says you left him! Why does he lie to me since 
you are here? Your dark eyes tell me he has abused you! Your 
sad lips tremble! His love-light is dead! His eyes are blind. God! 
You are beautiful! 

[n 9 ] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

Irma. Listen Trevor, you do not understand! Peer spoke the 
truth. I left him long ago because I could not stand his laughing 
life. I thought at last he saw my view but chose to keep along his 
easy, sinful path. I thought of your great strength and love for me 
and felt that if I came perhaps to you, I might find ground more 
fruitful to my care. You were in prison for my sake and so I lived 
alone and prayed' for your release. I have been good and honest 
and sometimes, when, day by day, I saw my beauty fade because 
privation kept its pace with me, I wondered if my love for any 
man could bring returns to such a saddened face. Last night, they 
told me you were free at dawn and so I came to welcome you to 
life. But it was dark and I mistook the gate. It was mere chance 
that brought me to this ball. Then I saw Peer and found that I 
was wrong — that he had meant to see things with my eyes — 

Trevor. Do not believe him, Irma! You are mine! I love 
you so I cannot let you go to him a second time! It is an endless 
circle that I tread! This time I cannot struggle, I am weak, for what 
am I to stand before the storm of such a man as him who needs but 
speak to chain me always to the prison floor? You, you have had her 
all her glorious youth and you have kissed her like an open rose, and 
with each kiss a scented leaf has fallen until at last, her golden heart 
is bare. That you will kiss and find its pollen dust which you will 
shake before your cruel feet. For who would wear a crumbling, 
withered stem against his hungry heart for ornament? 
Peer. Take back those words! 

Trevor. Nay, you will call her that for we must all grow old 
soon, soon or late. 

Peer. Irma, dear heart! Perhaps it is the truth. I do not 
know — I too, am very weak. Perhaps it is not fair to you to ask that 
you believe that I have changed so much. Perhaps I fool myself 
to think that I am worthy of your goodness and your trust. I only 
know that I am very tired, that all this laughter, gaiety and song 
is tragic mockery to me. The hours are dark with ghosts of my own 
brooding and I do not care to think or breathe or live. You have 
come back to me. I feel your touch only to have you snatch it from 
me like a holy thing, too sacred for my kind. Only the sight of you 
has made my heart beat strong with thoughts of what I meant to 
do before you left it cold, long, long ago. One thing I'm strong 

[ 120] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

enough to give to you before old madness drags me back to hell. 
Trevor, your way is clear. Here is my oath that you are free to face 
the world again. You shall have money, too, you shall have every- 
thing that I can give. You shall have — Irma, if she wishes you — I 
cannot ask her to remain with me. 

Trevor. Irma, I have great strength. It is for you to guide 
the might of me by your sweet will. Your skin is soft as silk but you 
have eyes that burn my power to ashes with their fire, and words 
that twist my muscles into threads. 

Irma [to Trevor] What would you do if I went back to him? 
If, fair once more, the earth before you lay? If with the rising sun, 
you could go forth to share its labor and its happiness alone, but free 
and bound to no one's will, your own subservient to your God alone? 

Trevor. The rising sun would pass into a cloud, the happiness 
would be the world's not mine; without your will, my will would be 
as none; you are essential to my thought of God. 

Irma [to Peer] And you, if hand- J n-hand we go away and leave 
you in your self-made prison cell with wine and murderers neighbor- 
ing on each side and nothing but your wealth to call your own, with 
old age staring from your casement high, lost opportunities slow- 
circling by in solemn, grand review, what will you do? 

Peer [swinging apart the gates to let in a flood of golden sun] 
I'll watch you go beyond my prison-gate into the great new day. 
And then, because my soul is very weak, I'll fall upon my knees and 
try to pray, to sort the fragments of my shattered life! I'll find 
the thoughts of you that linger there to hold them in the hollows of 
my heart, to see them shine amidst the deep-dyed mass, to see them 
glitter like a diamond-glass which, to my dying eyes will mirror God — 
[Trevor turns toward the gate, Irma following very slowly.] 

Trevor. Come with me, Irma, through the open gate. The 
green trees beckon and the road is clear. I cannot wait to be a man 
again! 

Irma [to Peer] He needs me most! 

Peer. Yes, Irma, go with him — 

[Irma moves toward the gate while Trevor stands beside it, gazing 
into the distance, Irma passes beside Peer and speaks as if to herself.] 

Irma. Oh, if I could be surer of his strength, sure that my 

[121] 



THE TWO PRISONERS 

sacrifice of him is for the best! [she hesitates] God bless you, 
Peer, and keep you in His grace! 

[As the two pass out, Peer leans against the wall and then slowly 
closes the gate. He folds his arms and walks with his head bent.] 

Peer. So she has gone! Oh God, I must not fail! Give me 
the strength to win against myself! [The figure of Irma is seen in 
the background but Peer is unconscious of her presence .] Oh it's my 
racing thoughts that drive me mad! Is there a single thought I 
have not had! A single beastly yearning, low desire, all the fierce 
fires of passion's love and hate. The rest of me is cold — save for my 
face; my hands are stiff and trembling and my heart contracts with 
weeping, but I weep no tears, only hot breath that comes so hard 
and deep it seems to draw my heart up to my brain, and force it back, 
up, back, and never out! How can I stand this torture without her? 
How can I face the dreary length of years ? I must forget, I must: 
It is too hard to face alone — I cannot stand the strain! Where are 
the shining thoughts I hoped to find? Irma, where is the God 
you tell me of? I seem to feel your presence near at hand; you are 
so calm,, so restful, sweet and pale with gentle touch that stills my 
quivering flesh ! Oh take me, take me in your cool clothed arms and 
lay your white hands on my burning brow; crush your fair linen up 
against my face; give me whole handfuls of your sable dress! Do 
not talk God or Heaven or Hell to me! Only smooth back my hair 
and hold me close and let me sleep against your quiet breast! [He 
pauses with his head in his hands and the figure of Irma slips softly 
away as he raises his face toward the gate. Joyously, he flings it open 
and runs forth.] Take me unto yourself, oh glorious earth! I shall 
go forth re-born to you to-day, strong in the beauty of the wind- 
swept sky, clean in my thoughts and pure in my desires to face the 
future as a God-made man ! 



CURTAIN 



[ 122] 



THE REALIST 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

ROSA ROSENTHAL 



CHARACTERS 

John Courtenay. Tall, dark, perfectly groomed. Easy and 
pleasant in his manner. Talks well and as if in the habit 
of saying interesting things. A clubman in the most attrac- 
tive sense of the word. 

Vera Dobbs. Fair and lovely-looking and beautifully dressed. 
Something the same type of woman as John Courtenay is 
man. She is obviously accustomed to adulation but has not 
been spoiled by it. She has an engaging sense of humor. 

Randall Dobbs. Vera's husband. An artist. Gives preeminently 
the impression of being young and very much in earnest. 
He is unassuming and shy in a way that makes your heart 
go out to him. He is intense in whatever he does and utterly 
without self-consciousness. 

Time. 5.15 in the afternoon. November, 1920. 

Place. One of the new suburbs just a little outside New York. 



THE REALIST 

Scene: A cosy, attractively furnished living-room. Large fire- 
place with a good fire burning in it. Comfortable davenport, etc. Set-in 
book-cases reaching from floor to celing. Mrs. Dobbs is serving tea 
at the opening of the scene. 

John [wandering about] You do keep this place looking fit, don't 
you — not like most artist's wives. Decent, respectable hangings — 
books that tone in with the wall paper. [Pauses at the book-case.] 
Draws out a book haphazard.] Hardy. Now there's a chap I can't 
forgive. He can take more joy out of life than my dentist. 

Vera [in the same bantering tone] Why John, how wicked of you. 
You know Hardy's the thing these days. 

John. Well, one must read him, I suppose, but I'd rather not. 
Perhaps things are like that — I guess they are — but there's no use 
rubbing it in. 

Randall [much more in earnest than either of the others] I don't 
agree with you there, John. I don't believe things are like that. 
That's what distresses me so about these fellows. [Lays tea cup 
beside him. Sits forward^ They pick out the most sordid things 
that life has to offer — go into all sorts of unholy corners to find them — 
piece them together with their morbid imaginations and call them- 
selves Realists. 

Vera. Well, they're real enough, aren't they, Ranny? I'd 
hate to think what they'd drive us to if they were any reaier. 

Randall. I'll admit that they grip you — but what I mean is 
that they're not fair. They show us the darkest spots and tell us 
everything's like that. I don't believe it. I don't see why people 
aren't just as realistic who take fine things and tell about them. 

Vera. That's what you do with your pictures isn't it, Ranny? 

Randall [uncomfortably] Oh — I don't know — I guess so. 

John. Come on, Ranny — tell us about it. 

Randall. Er — can't — have to go. [Gets up and takes his tea 

[ 127] 



THE REALIST 

cup over to table. Lays it down, then walks to hat rack and takes hat.] 
I must make that 5.50 for the city — we've got a meeting on tonight. 

Vera. Oh come, Ranny, you've got twenty minutes before 
the train leaves and it only takes you five to get to the station. It's 
just that you hate to talk about what you're doing. You think you 
might sound pretentious or something. 'Fess up now, wont you? 

Randall. Well, Vera — I'm sort of afraid to let myself get 
started. I feel so strongly about this thing we fellows are trying 
to do. I can't help making an ass of myself when I get to talking 
about it — and of course, we haven't accomplished anything yet. 
We'd better wait until we've done something worth while before we 
start spouting our theories. 

John. Oh, fire away, Ranny. You'll be doing us a favor. 
We've got to keep up on these new things, you know. 

Randall. Well — you see we don't believe in distinction 
that people have made between Realism and Romanticism [very 
earnestly] — as if you could take everything that's beautiful and 
idealistic — bundle it up in one pile, and say — "that's a lie — that's 
Romance;" and take everything that's sordid and disgusting and 
say "that's life — that's Real". There's plenty .around us that is 
beautiful and sincere — and we're trying to prove it by building our 
art around that sort of thing. 

John. Who's in this group of yours? 

Randall. There are only a few of us — Howland and Davies — 
they both write — and Ev Wiltshire and myself. 

John. That's old Sir Everett Wiltshire's son, isn't it — the one 
that's had so much rotten scandal in his family? 

Randall [put out by John's cool question] Yes. Well, I'll 
have to be trotting on now. De la Mare's talking to us tonight. 
We're awfully set up to have a man like him interested in us. [Goes 
up to Vera.] Good-bye, dear, — don't wait up for me, will you — I 
don't know how late I'll be getting in. I may even miss that last 
train out. 

Vera [instructively. Rises.] Oh — Ranny — don't — please don't. 

Randall. You know I wont if I can possibly help it — but you 
won't really mind, will you, Dear, with the servants in the house — 
and you'll stay all evening, won't you, John? 

John. Gladly — can't imagine anything more charming. 

[128] 



THE REALIST 

Randall. Then good-bye. [Kisses Vera.] I'll have lots of 
wonderful things to tell you when I get back. [Walks to door. Calls 
back from the door, half joking.] You're not afraid, are you? [Door 
off-stage slams. Vera does not answer. Vera crosses and sits on divan. 
John moves over from where he is standing to the couch and sits down 
beside her. He echoes her husband's words, but with a very different 
intonation.] 

John. You're not afraid, are you? 

Vera. Well, hardly that — you're not really dangerous — and 
if you do get violent, there's always Ranny's tommyhawk, that 
he brought back from the South Sea Islands — but — John [marked 
difference in tone] — 

John. Yes, dear. 

Vera [facing front] Something's gotten into me — and I may as 
well out with it now. 

John [bantering] What — are you falling in love with Ranny — 
are you coming under the spell of the sort of thing that he gets so 
worked up about? 

Vera. No. I stopped believing in fairy tales when I was six. 
And as for falling love with Ranny [more intensely] you know better 
than that. 

John. Well what's up — you're not going in for suffrage, are you ? 

Vera. No, it's just this. You've got to have a sudden pressing 
business call from Hong-Kong or Madrid or somewhere — and you've 
got to go away for a good long time — long enough to forget about me 
and to let me forget about you — and when you come back — 

John [gets up and faces her, interrupting] But look here — isn't 
this a little sudden? What's the matter, Vera? Why all the play- 
acting? We don't usually go in for the dramatic fireworks — any- 
thing wrong? 

Vera. Nothing wrong — any wronger than it has been for a 
long time — only it's got to stop. 

John. You're really serious? 

Vera. I never was more serious in my life. 

John [more quietly earnest, sitting down near to her again] Vera — 
conscience — remorse ? 

Vera [with a whimsical little half -smile] I don't cry over spilt 
milk. [Then, more intensely] I love you, John. For what's past I 

[ 119} 



THE REALIST 

haven't the slightest regret. Only — it can't ever happen again. 

John. Don't you trust me? 

Vera. I trust you as much as I trust myself. I can't trust 
either of us all the way. 

John. Oh — with most people it would be that way — but we're 
different. 

Vera. That's what we decide when we sit on the porch of the 
club house and watch everybody else making fools of themselves. 
We see young Stoddard making cow-eyes at Brian Metcalf's wife, 
and we look at each other and nod and say "Thank God were not 
like that" — when all the time — {pauses, turns toward him again] 
John — 

John. Yes. 

Vera. Do you really love me? 

John. You know — 

Vera [interrupting] How much? 

John. Oh — [John seizes her in his arms. They kiss almost 
fiercely — they suddenly break away and sit on the sofa a little apart 
from each other. John looking puzzled and a little sheepish, Vera, 
eyeing John closely.] 

Vera [after a moment, distinctly] Are we — so very different? 
[John looks bewildered. He rises and paces about for a minute.] 

John. I've got to have time to think this out, dear — it's all 
so strange, Here we are, going on in the same old way. All of a 
sudden, you tell me I must leave. You say you love me — and yet 
you tell me I've got to go away. 

Vera [earnestly] Can't you see that's why you've got to go? 
John — we're so much like everybody else — it's pitiful. Just be- 
cause we can look at this thing from something like a detached point 
of view, just because we have enough sense of humour to laugh at 
ourselves, we can sit back and smile — say we've slipped once but 
we'll never do it again — and all the time we're just plain flesh and 
blood like everybody else, and just as likely to slip again. Sometimes 
when we're sitting around as we were half an hour ago, with Ranny 
here, I think I can't stand it any longer. This careless, informal 
friendship that has everyone we know so perfectly deceived — I 
can't go on with it. 

John [walks up to her] Then there's only one thing in the world 

[ 130] 



THE REALIST 

to do. I've never said it before, but you know how I've always 
wanted it. [Sits on edge of divan.] Vera, we've got to go away — 
together. 

Vera. No — it won't do. 

John. It's the only thing that will do. It's the only thing that's 
fair to Ranny. You love me. You've been unfaithful to Ranny. 
You've got to come. It will be hard telling him — but you've never 
been a coward before. 

Vera. Oh, it isn't because I'm afraid. 

John. Then what is it? 

Vera. It's hard to explain. If it were anybody but Ranny, 
I'd come in a minute; but he's so different. 

John. Don't you think you'd feel that way about any other 
man. 

Vera. No, dear, I wouldn't. Ranny isn't like any other man. 
Part of him is very sensitive artist. Part of him is simple, believing 
child. You heard him a little while ago, talking about Romance 
and Realism. He believes all that — in a way that you and I can't 
understand. It's his creed. 

John. Well, since it's his creed, and it's wrong, hadn't we better 
enlighten him? 

Vera. I'm not so sure that it is wrong. Oh, it's wrong for 
people like us, who make our business in life one long process of 
seeing through things. But there's another kind of people in the 
world. They don't scoff as we do. They believe in things — and 
they can live for what they believe. Ranny belongs to them. 

John. But I still don't see why you mustn't tell him. 

Vera. Ranny loves me. He believes in me as utterly as he 
believes in God, I think. If he should ever find out that I'd been 
unfaithful to him, something would die inside him — something that 
makes him a little bit finer than the rest of us. [Breaks off, rises 
and walks to tea table facing away from him.] Oh I must sound a 
perfect fool — as if I'd got religion or something [turns] — but I mean 
it if I've ever meant anything in my whole useless life. \fValks 
up to him and they face each other up stage center \ If I didn't 
believe in Ranny's art, it would be easier. But there's something 
in his genius that the world needs — and that no one, but Ranny 

[131] 



THE REALIST 

can give — and I don't think that two ordinary people like us can let 
our lives spoil his power. 

John [puzzled — trying to find his ground] We've never looked 
at things like this before. But I think I see. And I know you're 
right — as you always are. I'll go — and I'll try to fight this thing 
down — though it can't be anything but a losing fight. [Seizes her 
hand.] I love you and I always will. [He kisses her hand passion- 
ately. Presently they look up and Ranny is standing at the door, pale 
but self contained. They do not know how much he has heard of what 
has gone on. Their natural poise comes to their rescue quickly, but 
until John leaves there is a certain tension in the air.} 

Vera. What's the matter Ranny — miss the train? 

Ranny. No. Just as I got to the station I remembered I'd 
promised to give young Palermo an English lesson tonight. 

John. W 7 ho's that? 

Randall. Oh, he's an Italian youngster that's sitting for me. 
Bright little chap. Couldn't quite see him coming all the way out 
here and finding me gone after I'd promised him. [Vera looks at 
John with a tender little smile on her lips, and shrugs her shoulders 
slightly as if to say " there you have him". 

John. Well, I guess I'll clear out before the youngster comes. 
He may be afraid of strangers. [Goes in back of divan to hat rack.] 

Vera. Goodnight. 

Randall. Goodnight, John. 

John. Goodnight. [John goes out. After he goes, Ranny re- 
laxes the tight grasp he has held on himself. He sinks down on the 
couch and buries his head in his arms for a moment. Then he looks up, 
his face hurt and tortured, like the face of a child in pain] 

Randall. Vera — I couldn't help hearing what John said 
to you. [Vera comes and sits on the arm of the couch. She is deeply 
moved.] 

Vera. Oh Ranny — I'm so sorry. 

[Ranny is trying to get control of himself.} 

Randall. He had no right to, but I can't blame him. How 
could he help falling in love with you — how could anyone help it? 
[A pause. Then he speaks — low, but with an intensity that makes his 
voice ring] Vera — I must know — you've got to tell me. [He puts 

I 132 ] 



THE REALIST 

his hands on her shoulders and looks straight into her eyes.] You've 
got to tell me now. Do you love John Courtenay? 

Vera [almost in a whisper] Yes. [Ranny 1 s hands drop limply. 
He looks as though someone had hit him.] 

Randall [brokenly] Oh my God — I ought to have known it. 
[A pause.] How long? 

Vera [still low] Almost always, I guess, [then, as if it bursts 
out of her against her will] Oh, poor Ranny! 

Randall. I should have known. How could I have hoped 
that you loved me — a poor, helpless idiot. 

Vera [in agony] Ranny, don't. [Ranny goes over and faces the 
fire-place for a minute. When he has gotten a little more control over 
himself he returns^ 

Randall [stands facing her] Then, dearest, there's only one thing 
to do. 

Vera. What? 

Randall. You must go to him. 

Vera. Ranny! [Rises.] 

Randall. It's the only thing. 

Vera. Ranny, Ranny, I can't leave you. 

Randall. Please, dear, don't make it any harder for us. 

Vera. But I can't just walk out of your life like this. 

Randall. You'll never do that, no matter where you go. 

Vera. But I can try to fight this other thing down — after a 
time, perhaps, it will be over. 

Randall. Love isn't like that, [fiercely] Do you suppose I 
can ever stop loving you, my dear? No, never as long as [He checks 
himself. Then with a brave, twisted smile] Well then, I can't very 
well expect it of you. 

Vera. But it's so beastly of us. You've been so perfect 
always — [walks downstage left] — never thinking of anything in the 
world but of what would make me happy. [Turns.] And then, in 
return I spoil everything for you. [Sits exhausted.] Oh, why did 
we two ever come together, only to break up everything for you? 

Randall [passionately] Don't Vera — you don't know what you're 
saying. You haven't broken up anything for me. You've given 
me everything I have that's worth living for — faith and trust and a 
sense of the beautiful — and you'll never take them away, dear, no 

[ 133 ] 



THE REALIST 

matter where you go or what you do. Do you suppose that just 
because you're not here with me, I'm going to lose you? Oh — 
you've touched me too deep for that. 

Vera. Then, Ranny, if you love me like that, why not let me 
stay — why should we spoil it now? 

Randall. You're not spoiling it now. It's staying on that 
would spoil it. [Turns away from her, then turns back.] Oh I know 
it's rotten of me, but if you were here, and I knew how you and John 
felt about each other, in spite of myself, there'd be ugly little questions 
coming up in my mind — and I'd begin to doubt you. And that's 
why you must go now — when I'm so very sure of you. 

Vera. Ranny — 

Randall. I know from what John was saying to you that you 
were trying to send him away. It was like you to do that, dear, 
even when you wanted him. I know that everything in you would 
revolt against doing anything that wasn't fair and honorable. You've 
always been like that. It isn't in you to act a lie. And that's why 
you must go now, before there's the slightest cloud on my faith in 
you. [During the speech you can see Vera struggling between the desire 
to tell Ranny the truth and the desire to spare him the disillusionment 
that it must surely bring. Several times she is on the point of breaking 
in, but when he finishes, she has made up her mind. She speaks with 
a quiet intensity.] 

Vera [Rises. They stand downstage left.] Ranny, you're right, 
I'll go. [The door bell rings.] There's your little youngster coming 
for his lesson. You'll teach him English — and lots of other things 
and to-morrow you'll go on painting him. And you'll make pictures 
that will live long after we are gone — and they'll all have something 
of you in them — the thing the world needs and no one but you can 
give it. God bless you, Ranny. 



CURTAIN 



[134] 



IN MY DAY 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 



BY 



RUTH O'HANLON 



CHARACTERS 

Mr. Matthew Middleton 

Mrs. Middleton 

Aunt Hannah Middleton, Mr. Middleton's unmarried sister. 

Vivien Middleton 

Donald Middleton 

Kenneth Gilbert, a college friend of Donald's. 



IN MY DAY 

Time The Christmas season, 1920. 

Place A small city in New England. 

Scene: The library in the home of the Middleton family. The 
room is furnished in good taste, chiefly with old mahogany. The walls 
are lined with bookshelves. There are several easy chairs and a large 
table with lamp on it. Afire place is at the left and there are two doors , 
one at the centre back leading into the hall and another at the left leading 
in the direction of the kitchen. 

[As the curtain rises Mr. and Mrs. Middleton are seen, one on each 
side of the table, reading. Aunt Hannah is sitting stiffly before the fire, 
crocheting something pink. Mr. Middleton is about to doze off, his 
head nods, but he still tightly clasps the Boston Transcript in his hands. 
Mrs. Middleton is far from sleepy. She sits on the edge of her chair, 
her breath coming quickly and her eyes following the words on the page 
before her with incredible rapidity. If one looks very closely one can 
see that the name of the book is "This Side of Paradise." One knows 
also, that she is experiencing some strange emotion of which horror forms 
the greater part but from which a certain satisfaction is not entirely 
absent. She turns the pages rapidly, gasps and finally utters an ex- 
clamation which rouses her husband into startled wakefulness. Aunt 
Hannah does not condescend to show any interest in her sister-in-law' s 
surprise. Mrs. Middleton puts the book down on the table with empha- 
sis. She is rather incoherent and monosyllabic at first.] 

Mrs. Middleton. Well! — [gasp] — Of all things! — [gasp] — 
Well, I never! 

[Mr. Middleton looks sympathetic but Aunt Hannah is engrossed 
in her crocheting.] 

Mr. Middleton. My dear, what is the matter with you? 

Mrs. Middleton. W 7 ith me. There's nothing the matter 
with me, but what is the world coming to? Why, in my day, if we 
had dared even think about the things which they talk about brazenly 

[ 139] 



IN MY DAY 

in this book — well! It is terrible Matthew, but it is a revelation. 
We've been blind. Our country is degenerating and it's the young 
people who — 

Mr. Middletox. Yes, I was reading only the other day about 
this younger generation and all the things they're up to. Some 
Mr. Grundy, I believe his name was, wrote an article about it, in 
the ''Atlantic." Perhaps it's the same idea as that book. 

Mrs. Middletox. I doubt whether it could have been as 
graphically expressed as this — er — F. Scott Fitzgerald expresses it. 
You must read it, Matthew. As I said, it's a revelation to me, a 
revelation! But we must be careful, I shouldn't like to have the 
children read it. Don't leave it around. 

Aunt Haxxah [speaking in a very positive manner] I'm glad to 
see that a few of you parents are waking up. It's about time. The 
Middleton family have always had a clear idea of right and wrong, 
and just because other people are growing lax, I don't see why we 
should change our standards, or be blind to facts. The Middletons 
have the blood of Cotton Mather in their veins, and we must remem- 
ber it. The youth of our country is corrupt. It — 

Mrs. Middletox. Hannah dear, you shouldn't generalize so. 
Of course there are exceptions, — now Donald and Vivien for example. 
Aunt Haxxah. I say that the younger generation is corrupt 
and I mean it. They never have a serious thought in their heads. 
The girls are bold and the boys are wild. They care only for dancing 
and for clothes. 

Mrs. Middletox. No doubt you're right, Hannah, but, dear 
me — it does seem — 

Mr. Middletox. Yes, Mary, of course Hannah's right. 
Parents are too lenient nowadays. Look at John Thompson. Why, 
they say his daughter actually smokes cigarettes and he knows it! 
[Rises and begins to walk up and down, enjoying his own oratory.] 
If I ever found a daughter of mine with a cigarette, she wouldn't 
stay in this house much longer. Where are the high ideals of our 
young days? We didn't take life as such a joke. We respected our 
parents and pursued more serious pastimes. This generation needs 
some good old-fashioned discipline. 

Mrs. Middletox. But Matthew, I'm sure that we've no cause 
to worry. Why Donald and Vivien are — 

[ Ho] 



IN MY DAY 

Aunt Hannah. Humph! I wouldn't be so confident, Mary. 
Just because they are your children, don't let them pull the wool 
over your eyes. Parents never, never see the weaknesses in their 
own children, I don't suppose, but [insinuatingly] if I were in your 
place, I would be careful. The Reverend Potter said in his sermon 
only last Sunday, that the young people were making a second 
Babylon out of this country with all their jazz-music and new dances. 
Do you know where they are this minute? 

Mrs. Middleton [with asperity] Of course I do! They went to 
see "Hamlet." They ought to be home anytime now. 

Aunt Hannah. But how do you know they went to that? 

Mrs. Middleton. Why we told them to get tickets for 
"Hamlet." I must say I don't think Donald's friend seemed very 
much pleased when we told him. 

Aunt Hannah. I don't like that young man. He's never 
serious minded. 

Mrs. Middleton. But he's young, Hannah. 

Aunt Hannah [snappishly] Oh, that's the excuse they all have. 
Why, in my day — 

There is the sound of the outer door opening and voices in the hall. 
Vivien, a very charming girl of eighteen enters followed by Kenneth 
Gilbert and her brother, Donald. Aunt Hannah resumes her crocheting. 
Mr. and Mrs. Middleton have banished any suspicious thoughts they 
might have had upon the entrance of their children. 

Donald. Hello, everybody. 

Mr. Middleton. Well, son, we thought it was about time for 
you. 

Vivien. I hope you didn't stay up just to wait for us. 

Mrs. Middleton. Oh no, my dear, we were reading. 

Vivien [seeing the book on the table] What's the book? [Mrs. 
Middleton tries to intercept her but she picks it up. In a scathing 
tone.] Oh, that! I thought it was frightfully stupid. Didn't 
it bore you? 

During this conversation, Kenneth has unconsciously pulled 
out his cigarette case, but suddenly remembering, he replaces it quickly, 
unopened. 

Mrs. Middleton [not wishing to commit herself about the book] 
Did you enjoy the play? 

[hi] 



IN MY DAY 

Vivien [with a quick glance at Kenneth] Yes, very much. [Walks 
toward the fire place.} 

Kenneth. Yes, indeed, — mighty fine acting, Mrs. Middleton. 

Vivien. What are you making, Aunt Hannah? 

Aunt Hannah [without looking up] Lace. When I was young, 
girls were taught to make useful things like this instead of going 
off to dances all of the time. 

Mr. Middleton [with a sigh] Yes, times have changed. 
Times have changed. [Donald, Vivien, and Kenneth look at each 
other and smile.] 

Donald [good naturedly] I suppose Dad, Adam told Eve that, 
to make her regret the good old times she had missed when she 
was only a rib. 

Aunt Hannah [shocked] We never used to joke about anything 
mentioned in the Bible, Donald. 

Mr. Middleton. W 7 ell, I guess it must be about bed-time. 

Donald. Say Mother, haven't we anything to eat? I'm 
awfully hungry. 

Mrs. Middleton. You'll find some cake in the pantry dear, 
and I think there must be some ginger ale in the refrigerator. Don't 
stay up too late. 

Aunt Hannah. Mary, do you think that food at this time of 
night is good for then?? 

Donald. Oh, we're hungry. 

Aunt Hannah. Humph! And people think it's strange they 
have indigestion. Why can't they be sensible? 

Vivien. But Aunt Hannah, if everyone were sensible think 
how dull this earth would be. 

Aunt Hannah. Well it might be just as well if it were — er — 
a little duller and if young people weren't so excitement-crazed! 
Humph ! 

[Mr. and Mrs. Middleton and Aunt Hannah leave saying Good- 
night, and {except Aunt Hannah) shaking hands with Kenneth. Aunt 
Hannah casts a suspicious glance at him as she goes.] 

Donald. Be back in a minute. [Exits through door toward 
kitchen.] 

Kenneth. Well Viv, it wasn't exactly a frivolous play. Are 
you sorry you didn't see "Hamlet"? 

[ 142] 



IN MY DAY 

Vivien. No, I certainly am not. I've only seen it seven times 
in my life and it was a worth-while change tonight. Aunt Hannah 
thinks we can't be serious-minded, — but you'll be careful, won't you, 
Kenneth, about mentioning the play. Father has a pretty bad 
temper, you know. 

Kenneth. Sure, I understand. 

Vivien. It's the Irish blood showing itself, I guess. You 
see Grandfather Middleton was a Congregational minister and every- 
one on his side had always been a straight-laced Puritan. Father 
certainly inherited his share of it, too — but added to that he inherited 
a temper that just must have come from Grandmother Middleton's 
side. She was Irish — Presbyterian. 

Kenneth. Of course I've never seen your father except twice 
before this, and he always seemed very reasonable and calm. 

Vivien. If he found out the mere name of the play we saw 
tonight, you wouldn't think he was so calm. I liked the play, didn't 
you? It made one think. But I was disappointed in the ending. 

[Aunt Hannah, having forgotten her crocheting, appears in the 
doorway, is about to enter but stops suddenly at what she hears. Vivien 
continues] I believe if two people love each other, nothing should 
stand in their way. 

Kenneth. But the affair with that other woman — 
Vivien. I don't care a bit about a man's past. If he really 
loves her, he'll reform. [Aunt Hannah gasps and disappears.] 

Kenneth. But that last act wouldn't have been half so effec- 
tive if it had had a happy ending, — and the author was trying to 
make out that the double standard was wrong and caused all the 
unhappiness. 

Vivien. It was the woman's single-standard stubbornness 
that caused it. That's the lesson / got out of it. 

Kenneth. Funny isn't it, how plays with lessons have to have 
unhappy endings. Somebody always has to go out and slam the 
door and leave the other person staring at a bottle or something. 
Say Viv, wasn't that thing the woman was always quoting from 
Shelley? 

Vivien. Oh, no, it was Keats I'm sure. 

Kenneth. But we had it last year in a poetry course at college. 

[143] 



IN MY DAY 

Vivien. I'm willing to bet you — cigarettes to candy that I'm 
right. 

Kenneth. All right, but how shall we find out? 

Vivien. Let's look it up. I think we have a volume of Keats 
up there on that highest shelf. [Kenneth reaches up, finds the volume 
and takes it down. As he does so, a letter jails out. He picks it up, 
and starts to replace it in the book when Vivien takes it from him.} 

Vivien. What's that ? It looks so yellow and old. [She unfolds 
it and begins to read it aloud, bewilderment and astonishment in her 
face.} "Darling Matthew: — I just received the news of your 
suspension from college. I do hope your father hasn't been unneces- 
sarily severe about it, but you never can tell how parents are going 
to take things. Mine have just forbidden me to go to Saratoga 
with Aunt Margaret because I rode Peter White's bicycle down Main 
Street the other day. Consequently I've been very sad for the past 
few days. Please tell your sister Hannah that I can fully sympathize 
with her. I certainly do not see why your parents made such a fuss 
about her riding horse-back astride. I think that if my parents 
tell me once more how good they were when they were young, I shall 
scream. Don't worry about your suspension. I'm hoping to see 
you in about a month. With dearest love from your own beloved 
Mary." [Vivien looks at Kenneth, they smile.} 

Vivien. Well, — it's a bit breath-taking, isn't it? 

Kenneth [in utter amazement} Whew ! — Good Lord, that godly, 
serious generation wasn't perfect in its youth any more than we 
are, were they? 

Vivien. Imagine Mother defying her father and mother! 
Let me see, — what is the date? April 1897, — w ^y twenty-one from 
1920 leaves 1899. My word, Kenneth that was before Mother and 
Father were ever engaged, and I've always thought from what they've 
said that in their day they didn't even call each other by their first 
names until they were engaged! [She walks toward the fire place.} 

Kenneth. What are you going to do with it? 

Vivien [with a smile} Burn it up. It would be a bitter blow to 
a parent's prestige to have something like that loom up out of the 
past. 

Kenneth. You had better keep it, Viv. You might need it 
some day. [Vivien goes nearer the fire place and unconsciously stands 

[ 144] 



IN MY DAY 

directly under a sprig of mistletoe. She is obviously deliberating whether 
or not to throw the letter into the fire. Kenneth follows her.] 

Kenneth. May I smoke, Viv? I'm dying for a drag. 

Vivien. Yes, please do, and [hesitating] do you mind if I 
have one too? 

Kenneth. I didn't know you — 

Vivien. I don't — I mean I never have before, but please 
give me one. I want to try it once. Don't you suppose that a girl 
ever wants to try something which men seem to enjoy so much? 
[Kenneth passes her his cigarette-case; she takes one. Kenneth lights 
hers from his own. Vivien is very awkward about it.] 

Kenneth. Like it? 

Vivien [choking] Not — not very well. 

Kenneth [suddenly seeing the mistletoe above them] Listen 
Viv — [comes nearer] Just one? 

Vivien. Oh, don't be so silly, Kenneth. 

Kenneth. But I have an excuse. You're standing under 
mistletoe. [Vivien starts to turn away but he catches her and kisses 
her. Just at this moment Mrs. Middleton appears in the doorway. 
She shrieks " Vivien." They turn. Mrs. Middleton comes into the 
room. Again she is inarticulate.] 

Mrs. Middleton. Your aunt — but, I couldn't believe it! — 
Vivien! — this is terrible — terrible. [Mr. Middleton appears in the 
doorway. Being without a collar^ he looks less dignified^ 

Mr. Middleton. What's all this — [He stops suddenly as 
Donald* s voice calls in from the other room "Here comes the old Scotch. 
Make way for Haig and Haigl" He enters bearing a tray with three 
ginger-ale bottles on it but he stops suddenly and almost drops the tray 
as he meets the fierce gaze of his father '.] 

Donald. Hello, what's up? 

Mr. Middleton [whose attention is only on the unconscious re- 
mark of his son] Young man, what do you know about old Scotch? 

Donald. Why nothing, Dad, — I was only joking, I — 

Mr. Middleton. You can't fool me any longer. You children 
think you can do things under the very noses of your parents, but 
you can't! — A taste of good old-fashioned discipline is what you 
nned. Old Scotch! Is that what you learn at college? [He turns 
his gaze on Vivien who is trying to make Kenneth take her cigarette 

[145] 



IN MY DAY 

from her but who has not succeeded in attracting his attention. Mr. 
Middleton sees her cigarette for the first time. His rage becomes less 
blustering but more ominous.} Mr. Gilbert is already smoking, Vivien. 
[Donald cannot help grinning at this. His father sees him.] Think 
it's funny do you, young man? Well it won't be funny for you much 
longer. It will be a different story let me tell you, when your allow- 
ance is cut in half. [Vivien, having thrown her cigarette into the fire 
suddenly becomes conscious of the letter which she is holding in her 
other hand. Kenneth is watching her. She looks at it, catches Kenneth's 
glance, smiles and shakes her head.] 

Mrs. Middleton [in a melodramatic voice] Vivien, what does 
this mean? 

Vivien. Why, Mother — howabsurd! It doesn'tmean anything. 

Kenneth. Really, Mrs. Middleton, we — 

Vivien. Mother, it's perfectly ridiculous for you and Father 
to make such a scene over — over — 

Mr. Middleton. Yes, over what! Over the vices of our 
children. What's the world coming to? You and all your gener- 
ation are going to the dogs — d'you hear me? — to the dogs. [He 
pounds on the table with his fist.] There's no virtue, no truth, no 
honesty in any of you. Thank heaven, we older people are waking up. 

Donald. Oh, I say, Dad, you're exaggerating — 

Mr. Middleton [purple in the face] You keep quiet, d'you hear? 

Kenneth [looking decidedly uncomfortable] If you'll excuse me, 
I think I'll say Good — 

Mr. Middleton [icily] You'll oblige me by waiting a moment, 
I trust. 

Kenneth. Yes, sir. 

Mr. Middleton. Do I understand that you have become 
engaged to my daughter without asking my consent? 

Vivien. Father! That's ridiculous. Of course we're not 
engaged. 

Mrs. Middleton. But, Vivien I saw him kiss you — 

Vivien. I don't care if you saw us — but we're not engaged and 
we're not going to be! We were only [hesitates] 

Mr. Middleton. Young man — do you mean to say — why it's 
preposterous! You kiss my daughter and you've not even honorable 
intentions! Why — 

[i 4 6] 



IN MY DAY 

Vivien. Father, will you please — Oh, you don't understand! 

Mrs. Middleton. In my day, Vivien, we did not interrupt 
our parents when they were speaking. [Vivien looks at the letter 
in her hand, starts to speak but changes her mind.} 

Mr. Middleton. We're going to change the system in this 
family. You and Donald go nowhere the rest of your vacation and 
your allowances are cut in half. Understand ? [turning to Kenneth] 
And you'll find I think, Mr. Gilbert, that there is a train leaving at 
six-thirty in the morning. 

Kenneth. Yes sir — er — Good-night [Exits.] 

Vivien. Father, you don't understand — 

Mr. Middleton. I understand that you two have been 
behaving in an indecent way long enough, but it's the end. Your 
Mother and I aren't going to be duped any longer. It's a disgrace 
to any self-respecting family. [To Donald, pointing to the ginger- 
ale bottles.] Pick up those things and go to bed. You'll hear more 
of this in the morning. [Exit. Donald takes the tray out in the direc- 
tion of the kitchen.} 

Mrs. Middleton [solemnly] I want you to always remember 
Vivien, that this hurts me more than it does you. [Exits. Vivien 
turns out the lights so that the room is lighted only by the fire. Donald 
returns.} 

Donald [sinking into a chair] Well, it's a cold grey dawn for us, 
isn't it, Sis? 

Vivien [holding out the letter to him] Read this, Donald. [Donald 
reads it, consternation and amazement in his face.] 

Donald. My God! Why where — how long have you had this ? 

Vivien. I found it tonight before all the fuss. It's funny 
isn't it? [She takes the letter again.} 

Donald. Why Sis — are you crazy? Don't you see we're 
quits with them now? They can't say anything! Here, give it to 
me. 

Vivien. What are you going to do with it? 

Donald. Show it to Dad. "In his day" — Humph! Sus- 
pended from college— I'll be damned! 

Vivien. Now you listen to me, Donald Middleton. I admit 
that it's a wonderfully easy way out for us, but don't you see that 
it would ruin their dignity and their — hold on us forever. Why, it 

[147] 



IN MY DAY 

would be like black-mail. After all there's something — I can't 
just explain it — it's sort of a bond of loyalty we ought to keep intact 
between the persons they were when they were young and ourselves. 
It's a kind of — honour among thieves, I guess. Don't you see? 
It's just because people are young and venturesome and enthusiastic 
that they do things. If we were as bad as they think it would be 
different. Of course I hate this rumpus. 

Donald. They certainly are flattering our little lapses by a 
lot of attention. I never realized I could feel as wickedly important 
as I did to-night. 

Vivien. Yes, the best way would be not to notice us so much 
wouldn't it? Donald, I'm going to burn it. 

Donald. Well, I suppose you're right. We're probably both 
damned fools. Gosh! I hate to do it! Just think of the hold we'd 
have on them. 

Vivien. Yes, I've been thinking about that. But — well, 

I'd like to prove for my own satisfaction that there is a vestige of 

something good left in our generation. At least, Donald, we can be 

good sports about this. [ The stern voice of Mrs. Middleton is heard 

from upstairs "Vivien — come to bed at once".] 

Vivien. Yes Mother, I'm coming. Well, here it goes. [She 
throws the letter into the fire and they watch it burn.] Only I hope and 
pray with all my heart that if I ever have any children, I'll never 
forget that I was young once. 

Donald. Amen ! [Both watch the fire rather dreamily.] 

Donald. My allowance cut in two! Oh, hell! [The curtain 
falls as they both continue to gaze into the fire.] 



CURTAIN 



[148] 



AVENUES 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

DOROTHY BUTTS 



CHARACTERS 

Jim Scott — is a large, well built Westerner, red-haired, strong- 
featured. In spite of his crude training, he is refined. His 
natural poise is the inheritance of a grandson of a Kentucky 
plantationer. His love of adventure belongs to the son of a 
man who went west to follow the forty-niners. He is overly 
optimistic, sensitive, a dreamer. He speaks with that eloquence 
peculiar to men unhampered by grammatical restrictions. 
There is a pathetic air of uncertainty about him, however, due 
to the recognition of his wife's superior training. 

Laura — is an Easterner, well bred, well educated. Stronger than 
her love of the formal is her desire to battle with life, to be real. 
She is practical and capable, but drawn to the romantic at the 
same time. Two years of prospecting in Nevada, living under 
strange conditions, fifty miles from a railroad, with only one 
neighbor, have given her what she wanted. She has helped 
Jim through one discouragement after another. Now, success 
seems certain, for in an undeveloped part of the claims, Jim 
has found a vein which has sent his hopes high. All of his 
disappointments are forgotten in his renewed faith in the old 
claims. "I always knew they were just waiting for me to get 
around to them, Girl!" he told Laura. There is no doubt as 
to the mine's success and the verdict of the assayer's report 
which he is expecting at any moment. 



AVENUES 

Scene: Their cabin home is Jim's so far as architecture is con- 
cerned^ but Laura's in the furnishings. In spite of Navajo rugs, an 
old brass candelabra, pieces of white linen, and New England mirrors, 
give the room that Eastern touch which Jim loves as much as Laura. 
Many books are lined in built-in shelves on either side of the rough fire- 
place. The fire place is on the right. At center back is a door. At 
the left a victrola and couch. A large tip top table is against the wall, 
to the right of the door. To the left of the door, a sideboard, showing 
the two-fold purpose of the room. 

[Laura comes in from door on left and moves the tip-top table before 
the fireplace, takes linen and silver from the sideboard and sets the table 
automatically . Cheery whistling is heard outside at the sound of which 
Laura cringes, irritated. Jim stands in the doorway, throws his hat 
onto the couch and greets Laura in a happy voice that fills the room. 
Laura makes no response to his playful tease. He pretends not to care 
and boyishly fools about the room, ending by putting Kreislers " Caprice 
Viennoise" on the victrola. Laura puts the finishing touches on the 
table and suddenly sinks into one of the chairs, burying her face in her 
arms. She sobs convulsively for a few moments. At a loss, his con- 
fidence gone, Jim turns off the victrola and tries to comfort her. She 
straightens as soon as he touches her.} 

Laura. Jim, I can't stand it any longer. [Rises and paces 
the length of the room.] I must go, — go! Do you hear? Why am I 
staying here? Day after day, the same old routine, — never any 
change. [Goes to Jim.] I have been fighting it all day and somehow 
that piece opened up the old avenue. 

Jim. Avenue, Laura? 

Laura. An avenue that stretches back as far as I can remember 
into early childhood, filled with times when I heard that piece, each 
occasion recalling the one previous, and they were always sad, — 
so many associations, and there was always a heartache attached. 

[153] 



AVENUES 

Do you know what I mean, Jim? I can't stand it here any longer. 
I want concerts and theatres and dances! I want taxicabs and lights 
and people, people, people! Not just Lone Eagle and Matoia. Oh, 
I want to get out of this avenue of phantoms where I am lost and 
haunted! I can't stand it. 

Jim. That avenue, dear, scares me. It makes me freeze up 
to hear you talk like that. It's as though there were a total eclipse 
like there used to be in the old heartache days when I first loved you 
and tried to fight it down. [Sits down on couch at left.] I know what 
you mean, I guess, that avenue. Sort of have one of my own, only 
I never can put things into words like you can. [Laura sits down 
beside him.] 

Laura, Tell me, Jim. 

Jim. Oh, well, you know when I first come back here before you 
said you'd come, too. I used to work so hard days I was too tired 
to think. But nights I couldn't keep away from the clump of cotton- 
woods, do you remember? I told you 'bout 'em. They were hot 
nights but there was always a little breeze stirrin' in the cotton- 
woods, sayin' somethin' I couldn't quite make out. Sometimes 
I though 'twas sayin' you'd come out to me sure enough someday. 
Sometimes it was ahauntin', sayin' what I wanted most would always 
be kept from me, just out of reach, that I'd have a glimpse of it and 
that would be all. 'N then it seemed I couldn't stand it. There 
were so many things I had just glimpsed from the time I began work- 
ing the old claims when I was thirteen, times when I thought we'd 
hit our "Bonanza Boom", — and then somethin' always happened. 
We hung on though, never sellin' out to any company, and now — 
[His mood changes from reminiscent to bright and confident^ — it's 
paid, hasn't it, Girl? The old claim didn't go back on us no more'n 
we went back on it. By the way, Laura, there wasn't any report 
in the mail today, was there? 

Laura. Why, — no. No, the coach is overdue. There was 
no mail. 

Jim. Well, it doesn't matter. It's on its way, Girl, do you 
realize it, the official confirmation of Walter's assay, running over 
a hundred. Just think! Walt says he never saw such ore. 

Laura. Yes, Jim, that's the whole trouble. 

Jim. Trouble? 

[154] 



AVENUES 

Laura. Don't you see you don't need me any more? So long 
as there was the struggle and the uncertainty and I was helping, it 
was wonderful. I never dreamed it would turn out so well one day. 
I never looked beyond the realization of something that seemed un- 
realizable. It is all so easy from now on. I have been brought up 
on adversity and problems, Jim, and they are a necessary part of 
my life. This upsets me and the old lonesomeness floods in with no 
fine motives to check it. 

Jim [elated] But this is the day I have waited for and slaved 
for, for fifteen years! You're tired of it here, and we'll leave. We'll 
go to California and live. We'll travel about as we please. You 
remember me tellin' you about this old valley where I was born, of 
how I rode up here the day before I went East to see it lyin' in the 
sunshine and how I said to it "I'm a-comin' back to you"? Well 
I come, — came — eh? Came. And now I'm leavin' with you, all 
my dreams fulfilled, eh, Girl? 

Laura [more and more irritated by his playfulness] Jim ! I can't 
stand it! 

Jim. Laura! "Can't stand it"? What do you mean? Laura! 
Laura! [Terrified r , he rushes to her and swings her around ', both hands 
on her shoulders^ You don't mean you're giving up now, you who 
never gave up to anything, you, my brave girl? — Laura, you ain't 
thinkin' of returnin' to the east! That was only talk, wasn't it, 
about the lights, and people, and the avenue, talk because you're 
tired? 

Laura. Yes, I guess so, — because I'm tired. [She rises slowly 
and rearranges the table. Jim watches her, -puzzled, helpless. There 
is a long whistle outside.] There's Eagle, Jim. [Jim goes to the door, 
relieved.] 

Eagle. Hello, Jim! Hello, Laura! Came a little early. 
Thought I'd like a little chat with white people for a change. I get 
tired of talking to an Indian. 

Laura. Matoia is a charming little woman, Eagle. 

Jim. She sure is! And can't she ride though! And play the 
violin. I thought sure you were goin' to lose her when she was 
studying abroad, Eagle. You're a lucky fellow. 

[Laura has been automatically picking up Eagle's hat, straightening 
a rug, etc. Quietly she goes into the kitchen. Eagle watches her closely .] 

[ 155 1 



AVENUES 

Eagle. What's up, Jim? Why is the girl so quiet? 

Jim. Oh, she's all upset and nervous. I put that Kreisler 
record on and she burst out crying. 

Eagle. Laura cry? Something's all wrong, Pardner. It's 
only cowards who cry and she's brave as they come. Look how 
she's taken the hardships of the last two years, oh, yes they are 
hardships! You ain't never known anything else! 

Jim [desperately] Eagle, she's going to go back, — East ! Talked of 
it today. Won't you talk to her? I never know what to say. I've 
got some business out doors and will leave you to talk to her. You're 
half Easterner and it will do her good. Tell her the whole East 
ain't worth a whiff of this air or one Nevada sunset. Talk to her, 
will you? Here she comes. [Laura enters left.} Well, Laura, I 
guess I'll go up the line a bit to look after the piping. There's a 
leak somewhere. I won't be long. [Goes out awkwardly .] 

[Eagle throws himself down on couch and stretches ', watching Laura 
and looking around the room.] 

Eagle. Good Lord, Laura, there's something about this room 
that makes me homesick. 

Laura. Homesick, Eagle? 

Eagle. Yes, sick for a home like this. It's, — it's you, I guess, 
that makes the difference. No matter where you are it seems like 
home to me. 

Laura. Don't say that, Eagle. 

Eagle. Oh, I mean it well enough. I'm not asking you to 
divorce Jim and marry me. That would be a bad change for you. 

Laura. And what would you do without Matoia? 

Eagle. Oh, I couldn't get along without her. But she is an 
Indian, Laura, and although I have been brought up as one, there 
are times when I want only white people, — my own. 

Laura. I understand. 

Eagle. You always do. You're wonderful, Laura. And 
sometimes, do you know, I get almost homesick for the East! 

Laura. You! [She sits down in a chair before the fire.] 

Eagle. Yes, I! It's wonderful out here, of course. I'm used 
to the big spaces, to the rough life, to the reality of it all. There's 
no sham, no pretence. I suppose that there are so few there don't 
have to be. 

[156] 



AVENUES 

Laura. Oh, there's pretence enough everywhere, Eagle, even 
though there's only one to pretend and only one to be deceived, — 
and they are the same person! 

Eagle. You're right. But the more I think it over, the more 
I realize that pretence is very real, and that people in crowds are put 
to tests we miss out here. Here we are brave enough to take our 
own failures "like men" as they say, and perhaps a pardner's, but 
we're not subjected to seeing failures everywhere, to the strain of 
tearing our souls free from a human tangle. 

Laura. But if there's only yourself to unsnarl the tangle, 
it is hard sometimes. 

Eagle. Funny, my thinking so much about it lately! When- 
ever I come here and see your New England touches, I want it all 
back. Don't you ever feel that way? 

Laura. Of course. Only I want them back much more than 
you could ever want them ! 

Eagle [rises and moves a stool to Laura s side, sits down.] Laura 
I care for you. I am not ashamed of it. Your happiness is very 
dear to me. I want you to do something for me. 

Laura. Yes? 

Eagle. Now, don't start when I tell you. I've seen it coming 
for a long time and it's better for you to face it right now. Laura, 
I want you to go back East. 

Laura. How can you say that, you, Jim's friend! 

Eagle. Yes, Laura, his "friend", and when a rough fellow, 
(we are all rough out here,) like me says "friend", it means for life 
and death. I love Jim Scott. I've known him since he was a kid. 
He never had a chance to get the things he wanted. Had to go to 
work at thirteen to help out with the family. Never been able to 
work this ground properly because he hasn't the money. And he's 
damn proud, too, wouldn't sell out for a pittance and work for 
someone else. I like him for it. He's always so boyish and eager. 
Gosh! I can see him now looking as he did when I first laid eyes on 
him. He was all alone on some claims they were trying out. His 
brother and father had gone for provisions, a two days journey. It 
was night. I'd lost the trail and went to their cabin. He took me 
in, glad to see someone. He'd been reading some Mark Twain. 
They had three books. He put me to sleep with his talk about what 

[157] 



AVENUES 

he was going to do someday. He was a great kid. You think I 
don't love him? Why, he's my "Pard". 

Laura. Why, yes, I thought, but I didn't see how you could 
want me to leave hi'm. 

Eagle. No, I don't suppose you could. You see, Laura, you've 
meant more to him than anything or anyone in his whole life. He 
had always been lonely until you came. But that isn't any reason 
for your sacrificing yourself for him. 

Laura. But it isn't a sacrifice any more. That's just it! He 
doesn't need me now. 

Eagle. And you don't love him enough to be contented when 
the horizon is cleared of problems and there's only Jim left! 

Laura. Oh, it isn't a question of love, now\ Love! What 
is it? It's work that holds people together, common interests, for- 
getting themselves in some third interest. Nothing else satisfies! 
What is love to old ties, old friendships, people you grew up with! 

Eagle. Laura, stop! You'll go crazy. I can't stand it. I 
love you, Laura. You are the only white woman I have ever known 
real well. I never knew my own Mother. I've grown up with In- 
dians. You're like a sister, something sacred and dear to me. We're 
going to settle this right now. Now, Laura, you want to go home, 
don't you? 

Laura. Yes. 

Eagle. Then you can't go too quick, can you? 

Laura. No. 

Eagle. In three days there's a train going through the junction. 
If you pack, I'll drive you over. 

Laura. There's nothing to pack, — nothing I want to take back. 

Eagle. Well, you be ready, then. That's, — Saturday. 

Laura. Three days. Why, they go every three days. Eagle, 
there's one going today! Going East! 

Eagle. Yes, but it's due in five hours. You'd have to ride 
hard to make it. 

Laura. Oh, how can I stand three more days of this! [Laura 
goes to bedroom door, sobbings enters ', and closes door behind her. Eagle 
finds writing materials and hurriedly writes a note. The room has 
darkened. Only enough light remains in the door view of western sky 
to make a silhouette of Jim as he appears in the doorway .] 

[158] 



AVENUES 

Eagle [whispering] Jim! 

Jim [whispering] Eagle! What is it? 

Eagle. I'm fixing it up for you. I've been sympathizing with 
her, — trying to get her to talk about it and get it out of her system. 
She needs sleep, a good night's rest and she'll be fine. Her nerves 
have all gone smash. I'm fixing it for you. 

Jim. How did you do it? 

Eagle. I haven't done it yet. She thinks she's leaving Satur- 
day. 

Jim. Leaving! You fixed it fine! [He starts towards Laura's 
room.] 

Eagle. She won't go! [Restrains Jim.] Don't you see if we 
make her relax and sleep, she'll be all right. She loved you or she 
wouldn't have hiked out here to live in a place like this. She hadn't 
seen the place. She didn't know there were to be all the problems. 
They've just got to be a habit and now that they are gone, she thinks 
it's them and not you that made her come. 

Jim. Well, I'm not so sure. Besides, how can we do it? 

Eagle. Oh, you ain't never sure of anything! You never 
have been! She won't go, I tell you. She's probably changing her 
mind now she knows somebody wants her to go. I understand 
women a little. 

Jim. Eagle, I'm floored. Stick by me, Pardner. If she should 
go — [He puts his hands on Eagle's shoulders.] You say you think 
she loves me? 

Eagle. Of course! All she needs is a little sleep. 

Jim. Sleep! Sleep! Well, how are you going to make her 
get it? 

Eagle. Now all we have to do is to make her think you need 
her. See? It's the success of the mine that's floored her. I've 
faked a report — [gives it to Jim] — says the ore is no good. See ? 

Jim [he reads it] It's a trick! I won't do it! She'll find out when 
the report does come. No, I'm afraid. 

Eagle. What if she does find out? She will have slept a little 
anyway. Things couldn't be worse, could they? Sh! Here she 
comes! [Laura's door opens and Laura appears , dressed for riding.] 
Laura ! 

Jim. Laura! Laura, where are you going? 

[159] 



AVENUES 

Laura [ignores Jim and steps toward Eagle] You said you cared 
for me. You said you wanted me to go back East as soon as I could. 
You said you would help me. Well, I'm going back East today, 
now. I want you to ride with me to the Junction. [Faces Jim.] 
Eagle says there is a train in a few hours. 

Jim. Laura, you ain't a-goin' back — East, are you? 

Laura. Yes, and I've got to hurry! 

Jim [he looks desperately at Eagle and then at the report in his hand.] 
Laura, here's somethin' that came in the mail for me just now. I — 
[He bows his head and hands it to her. Laura reads and looks up angrily, 
takes a letter from her pocket and gives it to Jim who reads it without 
emotion. She sneers at the two men.] 

Laura. You tricksters! You — [to Jim] — with your coward- 
ice and indecision and you — [to Eagle] — with your schemes and 
pretence of friendship! You're "pardners", are you, against me? 
Well, you're beaten! I'm done with you and your game and your 
"kind, broad, honest ways"! You love me do you, more than you 
do Jim? And this is how you show it! 

Eagle [starting towards her] Laura! I — 

Laura. Get back! Get back, do you hear? Don't touch me, 
either one of you! I don't need you. I'll ride alone! I want 
nothing to do with cheaters! [Laura leaves. Jim stands dazed. He 
looks at the report, and holds it out to Eaglet 

Jim. It's a favorable report, everything much better than we 
had expected. This is the moment I have waited for for fifteen 
years! Laura! [He starts after Laura. Eagle restrains him.] 

Eagle. Wait, Jim! She won't go! She'll turn back in an 
hour! She won't go, I tell you. If you follow her, it will only drive 
her on. She — 

Jim [throwing him off] You ! Who are you ! What do you know 
about it? Fix things! You've fixed them fine! You didn't think 
she'd go! Well, she's going right now. Do you know what that 
means? Do you hear? She's getting on her horse this moment and 
if I know anything, she won't turn back this side of Massachusetts! 
She's leaving me to the empty hills. God! — Laura! [He rushes 
through the door. There is a .loud "Whoal" a scream. Jim appears 
again with Laura. Silently he crosses to Laura s door and opens it. 
Laura stands before it.] Run away, will you? You're a plucky girl 

[160] 



AVENUES 

and I love your temper. Don't you ever lose a bit of it! But 
now I'm agoin' to give you somethin' to think about. Yours ain't 
the only "avenue" like you called it, where there's "phantom 
ghosts" and things like heartaches! You wouldn't want me hik- 
in' through mine alone, and lost, would you? I've always had prob- 
lems to handle, and they ain't all been on the claims. Tryin' to 
fit you into my rough life, hasn't been too easy on me. And I've 
always had failures to handle, too, and I've become sort o' used to 
'em. I had enough failures conquered before I ever met you, never 
to need your help. Success and me are strangers and if its prob- 
lems you want to help me with, you'll stick on the job from now on. 
There'll be enough problems to the square inch to keep you busy for 
life. [Laura looks at hi?n and goes into her room, taking off her hat 
as she goes. Jim closes the door and locks it. Eagle starts forward.] 

Eagle. Jim! Jim, what are you going to do? 

Jim [facing round defiantly and leaning against the door] I'm 
a-goin' to see to it that she gets all the sleep she needs! 



CURTAIN 



f 161J 



GERMELSHAUSEN 
A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

MARION ELLET 



CHARACTERS 

Werner a wandering artist 

Ulrich his friend 

Old Jan the burgomeister of Germelshausen 

Geltrude his grand-daughter 

Elspeth her friend 

An old man, a crowd of young men and girls. 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

Place: The Inn in Germelshausen. 

Time : Late afternoon of the towns last day above ground, some time 
in the seventeenth century. 

The setting represents the main room of an old German Inn of the 
thirteenth century. The walls are of dark brown plaster. The floor is 
of stone. Left center is a large stone fireplace at the upstage side of which 
is a wooden seat jutting out into the room. Up center is a huge double 
door which is flung wide open. To the right of this is a casement window 
with leaded panes, which is also open. Through the door and the 
window, one looks out into a grove which is flooded with the yellow sun- 
light of the late afternoon. Down right center is a massive wooden 
table and heavy chairs beside it. Right center is a single door leading 
to the other apartments of the Inn. Up left center is a wine cask with a 
rude wooden spiggot. The room is dark and foreboding in appearance 
but it is decorated with spring flowers and green boughs as though in 
preparation for some feast. 

The curtain rises and reveals an old man, bent and decrepit, 
huddled on the seat by the fireplace. His face is sharp and harsh and 
deeply lined. His clothes are dusty and tarnished as though they 
might have been stowed for generations in some forgotten and cobwebby 
garret. His whole appearance is rather repellently grotesque. Off 
stage there is the sound of laughter and singing. 

Love is the king 

Whereof we sing. 

Love is the king. 

Love is the shrine 

Whereto we bring 

Garlands from the woods of spring, 

Incense from the breath of spring. 

Love is the king 

Whereof we sing, 

Sing, sing. 

Love is the king. 

[167] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

A group of young people run past the open door. They are gayly 
dressed in the peasant costumes of the thirteenth century. Following 
in the rear of the group are two young men of the seventeenth century. 
One of them wears the artist's cap. At his side is a girl with her arms 
full of fruit blossoms and green things. She slips into the open door 
of the Inn, as the throng passes. She is the blue-eyed, golden haired 
type of beauty. There is a bit of red in the gold of her hair and a hint 
of the Lorelei in her general make-up. The artist blows her a kiss as 
he passes. She stands smiling in the doorway watching the departing 
crowd until the sound of singing has almost died away, then she blows 
a kiss and turns round glowing and radiant. She seems utterly oblivious 
of the dusky shadowy room in which she is standing and of the old man 
by the fireplace. Obviously her thoughts are with the merry makers whom 
she has just left. After a moment of silence she catches sight of old Jan. 
Her whole expression changes. She shudders involuntarily and drops 
the flowers suddenly to the floor. He responds to this action with a 
disagreeable cackle of mirth. The girl turns away from him, walks 
back to the open door and stands gazing wistfully out into the grove. 

Geltrude. Our last day of sunshine and then the mists and 
vapours from the Nacht Bog. [She shudders again and for a moment 
buries her face in her hands. In the distance a man's voice is heard 
singing.] 

Love is the shrine 

Whereto we bring 

Garlands from the woods of spring, 

Incense from the breath of spring. 

Love is the king 

Whereof we sing, 

Sing, sing. 

Love is the king. 
Jan [cackling again] "Love is the king whereof we sing." [Sneer- 
ingly] W r ell, and does he stay? Does our little king with his velvet 
cap stay among us? Eh? 

Geltrude [seems to consider for a moment, then with descision] 
No! He crosses the Rhine to-night, before — 

Jan. Oh, he does, does he? Well we'll see. {Hobbling over 
and snatching at the flowers she has dropped on the floor] And whence 
came these? They never — 

[168] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

Geltrude. No, they never bloomed in Germelshausen. 
Werner brought them to me from beyond the wood. Have no fear, 
my feet never strayed from the sacred limits of Germelshausen. 
[Desperately] Oh but perhaps they shall! Perhaps to-night when 
Werner leaves, I shall leave too — cross the Rhine and into the 
world beyond the hills. Oh I want to go beyond the hills! I want 
to go! 

Jan. And then — 

Geltrude. And then die, I suppose; but that's better than 
a living death. Twenty long years of darkness and loneliness. 
Twenty years of waiting for seven days of sunlight and life. And 
now the seven days are gone and another twenty years of living 
death! Didn't they, those men of the long past ever think of our 
suffering when they angered the gods of the Nacht Bog and brought 
the curse upon the village? [Passionately] Didn't they know what 
a living death would mean ? To be doomed to a life under the black 
swamps, and only seven little days of light! 

Jan [derisively] And yet you die if you but step beyond the limits 
of our village, Eh? The curse upon you, too. Te-he-he! 

Geltrude. Oh it's all very well for age like yours. It doesn't 
matter so much; but for youth, always the hurt and hungering of 
youth; and yet, never to live, never to taste life. [She pauses for a 
moment and hides her face in her hands again.] Oh you might have 
thought of all this, you and my father in your excellent wisdom, 
when you kept my mother here twenty years ago. It was enough 
to have broken all her dreams and her youth; but you might have 
thought of the race to come, of people with something in their veins 
besides the cursed blood of Germelshausen. You might have 
thought of that call that would come from beyond the Rhine. I'm 
not all of Germelshausen you know, not body and soul — Oh, my 
mother, my poor mother! Why did you keep her here just to kill 
her with your darkness? [Softening and coming a step toward him.] 
Tell me, was she so beautiful? And did she bring all that breath of 
life from the other world as Werner does? 

Jan [rubbing his hands together] Aye, she was beautiful. Her 
hair was gold, gold like yours, and her throat and her hands all 
white and soft; and she came through the village and your father 
saw her — [Musing] — and her hands so white — 

[169] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

Geltrude [disgusted] Oh hush! Don't! Oh my mother— 
and nothing but a world of shadows and darkness. 

Jan. Little fool! Bring the breath of life into Germelshausen 
just as your father did. Keep that spirit of the life beyond the 
Rhine, as you call it. Keep Werner. [Geltrude only turns away from 
him in disgust. Jan continues meaningly] But you shall 'keep Werner. 
Listen. To-night after twilight Germelshausen sinks. There is a 
pretty legend that one day a man shall come from beyond the Rhine 
and he shall love a maid of Germelshausen. She shall keep him 
until the curse descends upon the village, and yet so strong shall 
be his love that he shall feel no anger towards her and no hate; 
and his love shall lift the curse and redeem the village. [Sneeringly] 
"Love is the king whereof we sing." Ah but you shall try, you shall 
try it for us my pretty child. Perhaps he is the man of the legend. 
[Watches her keenly] You shall keep Werner. Do you see? 

Geltrude [half moaning] Oh not that, not that. I couldn't. 
Not all his youth and all his dreams as they did hers. [While they 
have been talking the twilight has stolen on, and deep purple shadows 
have taken the place of the golden flood of light in the grove. In the dis- 
tance a mans voice is heard singing the same verses. Geltrude starts 
at the sound and then turns as if to run and escape the singer. Old 
Jan seizes her by the arm.] 

Jan. You keep Werner here. You understand little fool, you 
understand? 

Geltrude. Let me go! [She shakes herself free and runs from 
the room. The artist and his friend enter at the door up center. Their 
arms are about each other s shoulders and they are apparently in fine 
spirits, laughing and singing snatches of the song. Ulrich's mirth is 
a trifle extravagant and the support afforded by Werner s shoulder seems 
not altogether unwelcome. Upon entering Werner looks expectantly 
about the room, but does not see old Jan who has crouched down on the 
seat close to the fire place.] 

Werner. Geltrude! [Silence.] Geltrude, liebling, liebes herz! 
[He pauses for a reply.] Gone, gone — like thistle down before the 
wind, elusive as the scent of Glockenblume at twilight. [Sighs 
deeply.] Ah, they are all alike, Ulrich, all alike. [Calls again.] 
Gel — [Catches sight of Old Jan.] Ah yes, Ulrich, as I was saying, 
the cure for thirst is obviously more wine, to be sure, wine by all 

[ 170] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

means. [These words are for the benefit of Old Jan who seems to have 
heard nothing.] 

Jan {putting his hand to his ear] Eh ? What you say ? 

Werner [yelling] Wine! Wine! [Then ironically, feeling of 
his empty pockets] Yes, yes, wine, to be sure. [Jan gets up to fetch 
the wine and Werner turns his pockets inside out and looks appealingly 
at Ulrich who has seated himself at the table and lapsed into a deep r every. 
Werner taps him on the shoulder and shows his empty pockets meaningly . 
Ulrich inspects his own, turns them inside out and brings forth one 
single coin which he places upon the table. Joy again reigns supreme. 
Old Jan returns with two large mugs or cups of wine which he sets before 
them.] 

Ulrich [picking up the cup and looking at it fondly] "Wine is the 
king whereof we sing." 

Werner [snatching the cup from his hands] Blasphemous cur! 
You shall have none of it. We don't sing of wine, thou beast. We, 
we just drink it. . .Ah, Ulrich, this is a brave village, a brave village. 
[He looks about with approving eyes at the boughs that deck the room.] 
These people have learned to live. 

Ulrich [thoughtfully] Aye, truly, the wine is good. 

Werner. No, but Ulrich, think how very strange it is. We 
stumble in our wanderings upon this little village, remote from all the 
outside world, from its hurry and its toil, [sneeringly] and its art, too. 
A veritable dream village, lifted bodily from out of the past, knowing 
nothing but the life of four centuries ago. It is strange, but it is 
beautiful too. I suppose there are many such in the North Forests. 
[Musing.] A dream village — [leaning back comfortably] I think I 
shall rest me from my wanderings and stay in Germelshausen. 

Ulrich. Yes a "dream village!" A cursed village — the devil's 
own village, more like. It's strange enough. [Here old Jan creeps 
cautiously out of the door up right center.] 

Werner. With the people of Germelshausen it is always the 
song and the dance. They seem to have learned that toil is a grievous 
thing, and it hath little recompense. As I was saying, I have about 
concluded to rest me where I am, my good Ulrich, to dwell among 
those who know what a very little thing fame is. [Laughter and the 
babble of many voices comes faintly from the direction of the grove.] 
Listen to them! And is it like this always, day in and day out? 

[171] 



G E R M E L S H A U S E N 

Why, Ulrich, they live as — as people that have but seven days in 
which to live. 

Ulrich [drunkenly] 'Tis most likely a feast in honor of their 
patron fiend. I tell thee I have heard strange things of this village. 

Werner [laughing outright] A curse upon the village mayhap? 
[Tapping his head] Was the wine of Germelshausen too strong, 
mein Ulrich? No, see, they have only learned how little meaning 
there is to life, or, if there be any meaning that it is all too far — too 
hard to seek. They were wise — very wise to sing instead — I have 
lived much, Ulrich, much, and I tell thee it's an empty shell, this 
life. The women? Oh yes they are fair enough, but not capable 
of any great suffering, any depth of feeling, any great sacrifice. We 
know, Ulrich, do we not? [He is taking himself quite seriously and 
begins to run his fingers through his hair with a nervous, excited 
gesture. Ulrich seems to have heard this before. He only shrugs his 
shoulders and contemplates his wine in silence.] 

Werner [brightening and looking around cautiously over his 
shoulder.] But there is the girl. She is beautiful! What of her 
soul? What does it matter after all? Most likely she has none, but 
what of that? Her hair is gold — and her hands! Did you see her 
hands? They are as white as — as — And that face! Ulrich, it is 
like the one that Hillbrand painted these two years past. The same 
look about the eyes. Hillbrand — curse his brush! His women 
are beautiful. Why can't I paint like that? I do paint like that! 

Ulrich [laughing uproariously and putting his hand a little 
unsteadily on Werner 's arm] Hillbrand, Hillbrand, the old, old story. 
Come, we cross the Rhine together — tonight — and back to the old 
world. You shall paint like Hillbrand. You shall, mein kind, you 
shall ! [During this last speech old Jan has appeared again at the door, 
right center. He is leading Geltrude and motioning her to be silent. 
She seems unwilling to come, but she catches Werner s next words in reply 
to Ulrich and starts, then listens fascinated. Jan motions to her to go 
in, then after a moment, goes away and leaves her standing there alone.] 

Werner [with unmistakable decision] I stay in Germelshausen! 

Ulrich [leaning toward him and becoming serious] Listen while 
I tell thee. I have heard much of Germelshausen — which was not 
for mein ears. [Speaks cautiously and in a low tone.] This village 
is cursed — has been cursed for ages past. Generations ago its people 



GERM ELS HA US EN 

in their folly angered the gods of the Nacht Bog and brought the 
curse upon themselves; and now the village is doomed to exist as a 
part of the world beneath the bogs and the black swamps. It rises 
once in every twenty years and its people taste of life for seven days — 
for the rest — oh they live and grow old and die as we do, but theirs 
is a life that is death, a life of shadows and half-oblivion, a life born 
of the horrors of the Nacht Bog. .. .That is what I have heard of 
Germelshausen. Drunken companions are not always discreet in 
the secrets they disclose. [Uneasily] They would use us for some- 
thing — yet I know not what. [Suddenly] Will you come with me 
to-night? [Meaningly] Many days have passed. Will you come? 

W t erner [watches him with a seriousness that is half in earnest 
and half mocking, then he laughs] Ah, the wine was strong for thee. 
But drink no more. [He appropriates Ulrictis mug.] No, my: lad, 
I stay in Germelshausen where there is always the sunlight and the 
groves and always meine Geltrude to love. [Holding up his mug.] 
To thee and thy goblins, Ulrich! [He laughs again and Ulrich seems 
somewhat angered. He gets up and starts toward the door then suddenly 
catches sight of Geltrude who has just decided to enter.] 

Ulrich [with a sweeping bow of rather exaggerated courtesy] Ah, 
Fraulein Geltrude. [Looking sharply from one to the other then speak- 
ing to Werner] I think it is yourself the wine has maddened. Goblins 
or no, I leave tonight and you would do well to come too, my friend. 
[He goes out, but as he passes the window, looks back and sees Geltrude 
go toward Werner with her hands outstretched^ 

Geltrude. Werner, what did he mean? You're not going? 
[Innocently .] But why did he look at me that way? [She lets her 
hands steal gently up to his shoulders and looks into his face with perfect 
innocence^] 

Werner. Oh, nothing, nothing. Old Jan's wine was too 
strong. Ulrich thinks the village is bewitched, cursed. Think of 
it Geltrude — cursed, and you in it. [Holding her at arms length.] 
Rather bewitched it is, and I too — but what makes you look so 
afraid? What made you think I'd go? 

Geltrude. Oh it was just the old loneliness, the fear of 
Germelshausen with you not here. [Nervously] Werner, does Ulrich 
leave to-night? 

[ 173] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

Werner [a little hurt] Why, why, do you wish Ulrich also to 
mitigate your loneliness? 

Geltrude. No. He must go. He must go before sunset. 
Werner, I — I am afraid of Ulrich. 

Werner. Why, nonsense child. 

Geltrude. He looks at me so strangely. [Half to herself.] 
He would hate me if I kept you here, and he would teach you to hate 
me. 

Werner [puzzled] Geltrude, what — 

Geltrude. Oh it's your art, your art. You are a great artist, 
a great painter. [Werner starts to protest.] 

Geltrude [with a note of bantering, but of subtle flattery] Oh, I 
know all about you. Ulrich has told me. 

Werner. You cared to ask? 

Geltrude. Yes, very much. You paint great pictures and you 
shall paint greater ones — or you should. But you see, I keep you, 
keep you here in sleepy Germelshausen, take you away from the world 
beyond the Rhine and from your art. [Half seriously] Mein 
Werner, will you hate me for that some day? [Before he has time to 
reply she kisses her fingers and puts them over his lips.] There, but 
you shall stay. [She takes him by the hand and leads him over toward 
the window, and seating herself on the window sill looks out into the 
evening. It has grown steadily darker and darker. Again there is 
the sound of laughter and of many voices in the grove.] 

Geltrude. This is the feast of the Seventh Night. 

Werner. What seventh night? 

Geltrude. Oh it's just an old name, old as Germelshausen. 
See, tonight we shall dance and feast together, here in this very room. 
[Wildly] We shall dance and dance until — [She pauses and the look 
of horror comes back in her face] Oh, until Cock-crow! But Ulrich 
should go before the feast. His face — it frightens me — that look of 
his! 

Werner [laughing] You don't love Ulrich. 

Geltrude. No, only you. Look Werner, out toward the 
Rhine. See the hills beyond, and the purple shadows and the two 
little yellow lights on the farther bank. Oh they are very beautiful. 
Look at them until you learn to know them. Do you hear? 
[Dreamily] We may never see them again. [Then in answer to 

[174] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

his look of bewilderment] Oh we may never see them just like this 
again. They may never be quite the same. Things change so, 
mein herz. Nothing comes to stay save only the shadows. You 
won't hate me then? 

Werner [looking at her as if for the first time] Why child, you have 
a soul, a poet's soul. Of course the hills will never be just as they are 
to-night, because you love me best to-night, and you see that} [With 
an unwonted touch of humility] Geltrude, you are worthy of a great 
artist. [He bows over her hand for a moment.] 

Geltrude [draws away y then with sudden conviction] You shall 
be a great artist. See, you must go to-night with Ulrich — back to 
the people who dream and toil. 

Werner. And hate and deceive. 

Geltrude. Oh no but you must go. You must not stay in 
Germelshausen. It is all loneliness, I tell you. I have known. My 
mother died here, and hated here. Oh you must go! 

Werner. Your mother? But what do you mean? Why 
should she die in Germelshausen, or hate? There is peace here. 

Geltrude [frantically] Peace, peace, always peace. Always 
silence like the grave! It was because of that she died. Don't you 
understand ? Look you, they brought her here from the world beyond 
the Rhine, the world you came from. [Holding out her hands] She 
had hands like mine — strong hands; and then there was nothing to 
toil for, struggle for, nothing for her strength to meet — but only 
that eternal peiice and silence; nothing to fight for! That kills some 
women. Now do you understand? [While she is talking her head 
is thrown back and her eyes flashing in the pride of her strength.] 

Werner [looking at her in wondering admiration] Geltrude, 
you have — it is like the blood of the Valkyrie in you. Look, I shall 
paint you that way one day. [Fingering her hair] With your gold 
hair and a golden helmet and a spear of gold! "Geltrude the 
Valkyrie", " Werner's Valkyrie. " Hillbrand never had a face like 
that. 

Geltrude. Then you will go back and paint? You will go? 
You must! 

Werner. No, Geltrude, I shall paint here in Germelshausen. 
Beautiful Germelshausen — and I shall paint just for you, and if the 
lines aren't true and the colors perfect, who shall care? 

[ 175 1 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

Geltrude. Then you won't go? But — [During the last speech 
it has grown quite dark. Old Jan has stolen in and crept into his corner 
by the fire-place again. At this point Geltrude catches sight of him and 
he meets her look with a diabolical grin. Geltrude leans back in the 
window, her face utterly frozen and passionless and her hands limp 
in her lap. Slowly a look of terror comes into her eyes.] 

Geltrude. Oh, don't leave me — don't leave me, Werner. I'm 
afraid. Promise me you won't leave me. [Werner has not seen old 
Jan all this time. He leans toward Geltrude as if to comfort her but at 
this moment laughter is heard and the crowd of young people comes 
flocking into the room. The light of the lanterns can be seen through 
the window as they pass. Like a flash Geltrude jumps down from the 
window and leaves Werner standing in bewilderment. 

Geltrude. The Feast of the Seventh Night ! Lights ! Lights ! 

[She runs wildly across the room to the fire-place and, snatching up 
a brand, lights the candles that are fastened above the fire place and be- 
side the door. Her hair is streaming and her face is the picture of utter 
abandon. She goes to the fire-place to fling back the brand. Old Jan 
who is still crouching by the fire on the wooden seat, watches her furtively 
but she does not even return the glance. The guests are dividing into 
little groups, laughing and talking. Werner is in conversation with 
some of the men, but now and then he turns uneasily to look at Geltrude 
who is moving about from group to group exchanging greetings.] 

i Girl [effusively rushing up to Geltrude] Oh Geltrude, I always 
knew it would be you who would save us all. 

Geltrude. Hush, hush. 

Girl [more softly] You were made to do something wonderful, 
something heroic. Oh, how he must love you! He could never feel 
anger at you Geltrude, and he must be the man who will redeem 
Germelshausen. They say he is a great artist in the world beyond 
the Rhine. [Looking across the room at Werner and sighing deeply] 
— and his eyes are so beautiful! [Geltrude moves away and the girl 
continues to stand in the middle of the floor gazing raptly at Werner :] 

2 Girl [standing at right center conversing with her partner] To 
think that it should be Geltrude. Such strange things happen. Do 
you think she is so very pretty? [adjusting her own hair] She does seem 
to have handled him though. [Here they turn and move upstage into 
the crowd. The man follows Geltrude with admiring eyes.] 

[1761 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

3 Girl [also conversing with her partner. She is an angular ; homely 
girl, with a great deal of nervous energy expressed in her gestures and 
voice] Oh Hans, you are sure he suspects nothing? Geltrude would be 
so careless and so thoughtless about such things. You and Heinrich 
must be very careful not to say anything that would lead him to 
suspect. Shhh! Now you must — [Here they move away. At 
this point Ulrich comes in at the door up center. He fixes his eyes on 
Geltrude. She catches sight of him, starts, stands still for a moment, 
then involuntarily turns as if to go from the room but is stopped by old 
Jan who is conversing with an old white haired man with a benign coun- 
tenance.] 

Old Man [putting his hand on Geltrude 's head] Ah yes, my child, it 
is your duty to Germelshausen, and to your good grandfather here 
and to the blessed memory of your dear father and mother. 
[Geltrude is stonily silent.] Ah perhaps, he is not the man, but what 
then? It is a very little thing, just one life. It matters so little; 
and your duty to Germelshausen always first my child, your duty to 
Germelshausen ! [He pats her on the cheek and turns away.] 

4 Girl [Coming up to Geltrude and looking straight into her face] 
Geltrude! You, you are keeping him? [At the note of sympathy in 
her voice Geltrude drops her eyes and nods quietly.] 

Geltrude. Yes, Elspeth. 

Elspeth. You love him, Geltrude? [She makes no reply only 
continues to stand there with her head bowed.] 

Elspeth. There, there, poor child. 

Geltrude [aloud and almost frantically] Music, music and the 
dance! Quick! It is already late! [The musicians who have ranged 
themselves near the fire-place begin to play the dance music. This is 
accompanied by singing among the guests. Werner comes forward 
to claim Geltrude as his partner, and they lead out the dance. Just as 
they are finishing the set and laughter is mingled with the singing, 
a clap of thunder is heard accompanied by the sound of wind. The 
lights tremble and flicker for a moment. The music and the dancing 
stop. A gasp and a shudder runs through the crowd. They seem frozen 
with teror. There are half stiffled cries from the women. 

"The Nacht Bog — the mists from the Nacht Bog! Oh I am 
afraid, I am afraid! 

"Hush, hush, he may hear you." 

[ 177] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

"Oh Germelshausen, Germelshausen, the curse of Germelshausen 
is upon us again." 

[Geltrude and Werner stand alone in the middle of the stage. She 
stares wildly before her, terror-stricken at the thought of what she has done.] 

Werner. Geltrude, why Geltrude, it's only a storm. Come, 
we shall dance again. [When she does not meet his glance he looks at 
her closely and a little suspiciously. Ulrich has made his way through 
the crowd and is coming quickly toward them, his eyes riveted on Geltrude. 
She sees him coming and turns toward the frightened guests.} 

Geltrude. Come, it is only a storm. Quick, we will dance, 
more music! [Taking Ulrich by the hand] See Ulrich, you shall lead 
the dance with me. [The music is much softer and they all dance 
half he arte dly, only Geltrude seems wildly , frantically gay again. When 
she and Ulrich go away hand in hand Werner shrugs his shoulder and 
turns his back on the dancers. One of the young men comes up, takes 
him by the arm and leads him away, over toward the wine cask where 
they fill their cups and drink standing up left center. From time to 
time Werner glances uneasily toward Geltrude. While the others are 
dancing she leads Ulrich down right center.] 

Ulrich [seizing her arm as though to shake her] You witch ! You — 

Geltrude. Hush, let me speak. There is little time, less 
than you think. You were right, Ulrich, listen. I — I heard what you 
said to Werner here, this afternoon. Germelshausen is cursed. Oh 
you were right, you were right. [He seizes her arm again.] 

Geltrude. Don't, don't, I say — there is so little time. You 
must help me. Take Werner to the hill above the village, before we 
sink forever. Ah, quick, quick, you must help me! [Another crash 
is heard and the lights grow quite dim. Geltrude screams involuntarily, 
then checks herself, but the dancers are panic-stricken. They run, 
crowding and jostling one another, through the door up center. Geltrude, 
Werner, Ulrich, and old Jan are left alone. Werner stands, cup in hand, 
half bewildered and half amused at the performance. Jan slinks, as 
usual into the background but watches them all keenly. Ulrich steps 
uneasily toward the door and looks out.] 

Geltrude [with a supreme effort at control] And only a storm! 
Such children, such children; but such a storm! Look you, Werner, 
to the hill just beyond Germelshausen! Yes, even in this storm. 
There is a wonderful thing when it storms, strange lights glow in the 

[178] 



G E R M E L S H A U S E N 

Nacht Bog and there are figures of flame in the North sky. Quick, 
quick, you may yet be late! No man knows what it means, only it 
is wonderful. When the lightning flashes through the falling rain 
it is like a shower of fire. [Werner remains motionless.] 

Ulrich. Aye, Werner, come while it is yet storming. 

Geltrude [going closer to him] Werner, it is like — like the torches 
of the Valkyries when they ride from Valhalla, those figures of 
flame. Why, you shall paint them with me one day. Don't you 
remember? ''The Valkyrie", "Werner's Valkyrie". Quick, or you 
will be late. See, Ulrich will go too. He will show you the hill. 
Quick! [All this time he has been looking at her intently and rather 
curiously , but even in the eagerness of her words she is outwardly composed 
and controlled. She seems to be growing desperate at last under the 
calm scrutiny of his glance when suddenly Ulrich takes him by the 
arm and fairly drags him toward the door. Even then he turns as if to 
urge Geltrude to go with them.] 

Geltrude. No, no, not tonight in the storm. I cannot go — 
[Almost breaking down] I, I — am tired. 

Werner [stoops and kisses her hands] For Werner's Valkyrie then. 
[He looks back at her once then runs out into the storm with Ulrich. 
At this point old Jan who has been watching them furtively starts toward 
the door, but Geltrude turns quickly , puts out her hand to stop him and 
he slinks back again muttering with rage. Geltrude stands perfectly 
motionless for a moment. The storm grows louder and the room is 
almost dark. At last she goes up to the great doors and closes them, 
then sinks down against them in a heap. 

Geltrude [in a stifled voice] And a man shall come one day who 
shall love a maid of Germelshausen — perhaps — Oh Werner, Werner. 
Nothing but the shadows now. Oh mein lieber, mein lieber! 
[For a few moments there is no sound above the sound of the wind save 
Geltrude 's moaning, then a few belated villagers rush by screaming and 
cursing. The light of their lanterns flashes through the open window. 
At length old Jan comes out of the corner and goes toward her fairly 
shaking with rage.] 

Jan. Coward! So he's gone, is he? Our little god with his 
velvet cap? You were afraid, afraid. Of what use is your beauty 
and your white hands, eh? You couldn't keep him and you were 
afraid. Coward! Witch! [Sneeringly] "Werner's Valkyrie." [For 

I 179] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

a moment she rmains absolutely silent and motionless. Jan again 
fairly hisses the words] Coward! Witch! [Finally she jumps up, 
glaring at him like a wild animal at bay.] 

Geltrude. Be still! You shall be still! [She rushes past him 
to the window and calls out frantically] Werner! Werner! [Breaking 
down] Oh there is no use, no use — Werner, Werner! [She leaves 
the window and runs half crazed toward the door leading to the other 
apartments and opens, it, calling, "Werner, Werner!" Then realizing 
what she has done she stops suddenly, goes over to the table which has been 
pushed back against the wall, down right center, sinks into a chair beside 
it and buries her head in her arms, fust then, very far off a man s voice 
answers her call "Geltrude" . She raises her head to listen. Again, 
more distinctly "Geltrude". Thoroughly frightened she starts up. Her 
back is toward the door. The lights have become slightly brighter and 
there is a lull in the storm. At length Werner is seen running past 
the window. He opens the door and rushes into the room. His face is 
aglow in his determination to make the final sacrifice '.] 

Werner. Geltrude, my Geltrude! [When she turns around 
and sees him standing there she screams.] 

Geltrude [frantically] Werner, why have you come back? 
You must not. Quick, there is yet time! 

Werner [quietly putting both hands on her shoulders and looking 
into her face] I have come back to stay, meine Geltrude. See, Ulrich 
has told me all — that I had already guessed. I have left him on the 
hill above the village, but I — Oh you will not send me away again? 
Nothing matters in the world beyond the Rhine. 

Geltrude [trying to thrust him away] Oh but the mists of the 
Nacht Bog! You do not know. Werner — 

Werner. I have said that nothing matters but you. [Taking 
her in his arms] Do you see? [The stage suddenly becomes bright 
and the sounds of the storm cease entirely.] 

Geltrude [looking up] Werner, look! The mists — they are 
gone, gone! The gods of the Nacht Bog have been kind. [Very 
slowly] Werner, you have saved — Oh mein lieber! [There is the sound 
of many voices outside and people are seen rushing past the window. 
There are cries of "Saved, saved, we are saved!" "Germelshausen is 
redeemed!" "'The curse of Germelshausen is lifted!" Then the music 
and song of the first scene are heard again.] 

[180] 



GERMELSHAUSEN 

"Love is the king 

Whereof we sing, 

Sing, sing. 

Love is the shrine 

Whereto we bring 

Garlands from the woods of spring, 

Incense from the breath of spring. 

Love is the king." 

[They come rushing into the room crying, "Saved, saved, we are 
saved! Germelshausen is redeemedV y \ 

Geltrude [looking up at Werner] And a man shall come one day, 
and he shall love a maid of Germelshausen. 



CURTAIN 



[181] 



^ 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper pro 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnoloc 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERV 
111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 
(724)779-2111 



